By justoneguy

The young man’s organs dangled between his legs. He was 18 years old, the age at which his manhood was confirmed by testing his sperm and his DNA. Up until that point, all young men his age were more or less equal. At the end of the day, all young men will still be more or less equal. But, by nightfall, this poor young man won’t be one anymore.

It was my job to make sure this happened in an orderly way. Being a woman, I am perhaps not as sympathetic with those I must emasculate as a man might be. But, being a mother of a 17-year-old son, it is often quite an ordeal to emasculate a strapping young man. Especially since his only crime was some sort of genetic or reproductive negative that in the old days wouldn’t have prevented him from marrying and fathering children and living the life of a man. But times were different now.

I prepared for the procedure the same way I always did. I wore a white doctor’s jacket with the top buttons undone. I know that I do this mostly out of vanity—seeing a young man turned on my cleavage and well-maintained body is quite a rush. But it is also for the young men—to give them at least a small taste of what they are leaving behind on the table. Not just their genitals, but their manhood, their desire. I wear my hair back in a ponytail, mostly just to keep it out of my face during the procedure. I wear no mask or gloves. It really isn’t necessary, since the emasculation is done in a sterile setting with little chance of infection.

Thousands of young men come through this office every year on their 18th birthday. For the vast majority, they leave on their own two feet, proud and strong, with their genitals still stuffed in their jeans. When they get home, there will be a party, an18th birthday party of celebration with family and friends. And perhaps, if the young man already has a sweetheart, with a night of passion. After a young man is tested, he can sleep with pretty much any girl as long as she is willing. But, if the young man is one of the few who are rejected for whatever reason, he is brought to me. And when he leaves the building, it will be stumbling and shuffling, with an arch between his legs. That will be this kid’s fate.

And he knew it. I actually knew this kid, but only by name. His name was Chris something-or-other. My niece had dated his brother several years ago, and I saw him at a few family functions. But I didn’t know him well enough for it to interfere with my job. I doubt that this young man even remembered me. Young people don’t pay too much attention to adults, I’ve found. He looked at me, stared at me. His brown eyes were wide and pleading. There was a strap over his forehead, pressing his brown hair into his skin. Another strap at his chin holds the young man’s head still. But his head is not flat on the table. It is propped up slightly on a soft pillow. The straps hold his head hard on that pillow, but he is free to look down the length of his body. He is staring at me as I stand below his naked feet. I look at his feet. They look long, wide, big feet for a strapping young man. His big toes were prominent. I thought about the young man wearing his boy’s sneakers while he played basketball with his friends. He was on the local high school team. He certainly was tall enough to be a good player. I had watched him when his school played against my son’s school. He had been an aggressive player, pushing his tall firm frame against the other players, pushing them from the hoop.

Thinking of him as a young player, running up and down the court, throwing and catching the ball, getting sweaty, being a part of the winning team—it was such a contrast to him on the table. Now, straps held his two big feet completely still and helpless on the table. The small brown hairs of his lower leg stuck out over the strap. His strong legs were strapped again at his white hairless thighs. Two more straps held his biceps, and two more held his wrists. A wide strap stretched over his slim but firmly muscled chest. The black strap cut into the bushy tufts of brown hair and the soft flesh under his arm and rested tightly under his small pink nipples. A final strap stretched across his waist, between his belly button and the tangled thick bush of brown hairs that surrounded his sex. That last black strap covered the thin trail of brown hairs that lead from his pubic hair, up his smooth pale skin, to his "in-ie" belly button. There he laid, all of his body held firm, immobile, naked and helpless.

His eyes were locked on to me. They were big and brown, framed by two brown brows. Bedroom eyes, my mother would have called them—the kind of eyes a man has who will lay with you after making love and stare into your soul. Now they stared out fearful and pleading. He knew that his sperm and his genetics had doomed his manhood. His only hope was my mercy, which he should have known was no hope at all. But I suppose that a young man facing the end of his ripe masculinity must cling to some hope.

I looked the boy over, making sure that everything was in order. I took stock of his genitals, the source and storehouse of the manhood I was about to extinguish. His testicles hung down against his taint. The healthy young nuts seemed heavy in their sack. The twin orbs were perfectly framed in the soft flesh of his bag. His sack had the smooth look of youth with each of his sensitive eggs visible inside. Small brown hairs were scattered around the soft skin, which was a light brown tan hue—as much a sign of the ripeness and maturity of his dangling fruit as his thick sex hair. At the neck of his sack, from his underbody to his plump nuts, were little wrinkles and folds in the skin. I ran my finger against the sloping curve of his right orb, and both of his ripe male eggs stirred and shifted in their sack.

Chris’s soft smooth sausage sat on top of his male bag, resting in the cleft of soft skin between his two plump orbs. The shaft was soft and fleshy pale, with not veins or blemishes. It was so handsome they way his pale sausage was set off and framed by the tan skin of his scrotum. Brownish-pink skin gathered in several soft folds behind the flared edge of his plump pink tip. And I knew that soft tube of flesh hanging from his brown sex hair was virgin meat. All young men are virgins until they are tested at 18. A lie detector confirms this. And you don’t want to know what happens to the lads who fail that test. They unfortunate young man had not failed that test. He had controlled himself, looking forward to the day when he was lawfully tested and could take as many of the young women who admired his body and his skill and his humor to bed. That wouldn’t be his fate now. The youth and freshness of his organs almost made it a shame to emasculate the young man. But I knew it must be done.

And the time was at hand. I double-checked my equipment. The table to which the unfortunate lad was strapped was specially made for emasculated. Between the young man’s feet, which were strapped down about two shoulder lengths apart, was THE GELDER. It was a shinny silver metal donut, about two inches thick, smooth and polished, with a 3-inch hole in the center. Behind it was a silver joystick with a wide red button on the top. The Gelder instrument ran on a track on the table so that it could be moved up between any male’s legs, no matter his height or the length of his legs. I unsnapped the safety on the Gelder and slid it up the track until it was right next to the poor lad’s dangling nuts.

I walked around to the side of the table. My arms were too short to reach from the young man’s feet to his crotch. But from the side I could reach over his hips and easily access his crotch. I could see the smooth muscles on the surface of his hips tense and strain under his pale smooth skin as he tried to move. But it was no use. His masculine muscles were useless thanks to the many straps holding him down. And now, the Gelder was right between his legs. I knew he could feel the cold polished steal against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

I reached over and lifted his soft tube of man-flesh off his hanging sack. His organ felt foreign in my feminine hand. The feeling of a penis always amazes me—probably in the same way men are surprised and fascinated by the feel of a pussy no matter how many times they have felt one. His organ was soft and loose. I could feel the criss-cross of small veins and tight tissues under the thin fleshy skin. His organ had weight, even when it was soft—a good sign, I have found, for his erect size.

“Hhhuuuuuhhhhh.” Chris sucked in a quick breath and exhaled his hard. I knew that this was the first time his man meat had been felt by a woman. Despite his desperate situation, I felt his organ thicken in my hand.

But his penis was not my main interest. I dropped his organ on his left thigh, giving me a full view of his hanging fruit. I reached over and probed his bag with my fingertips. His skin was like velvet. I felt the spongy tissues of his epididamys. I rolled each of his plump orbs between my thumb and forefinger. The surface was so smooth and firm. His organs were healthy and virile. Chris’s body began to shiver as my fingers probed his most sensitive manhood. This was not totally a response of fear, I knew. I remember my own husband when we were first married. When I handled his fruit, he used to shiver a little. I think it is a natural response of a male when someone else is touching his tender orbs. And something else told me that Chris’s response was not only fear—his organ began to thicken and rise from his thigh. I was after all a woman, and there were feminine fingers handling his soft bag. And he was an 18-year-old virgin male. Table or no table, straps or no straps, gelding device or no gelding device, he was getting an erection.

But I didn’t waste time pondering his stiffening pole. There would be time for that when my work was done. I pulled the Gelder into position. One by one, I slipped his twins through the silver donut. He twitched again when he felt the cold steal against the soft skin of his sack. When they were both through the hole and hanging out the other side, I pushed the Gelder up its track until it was right against his taint. And as I locked it in position, I saw that his organ was now standing up at a tight angle over his flat heaving stomach. And what a mighty pole of male flesh it was, hard and straining. I stared at the wide underside of his organ. It was about 2.3” across with a wide prominent urethra running down its length. A little over 6.25” in length, the real strength of his organ was its girth. At 5.5” around, and very wide, I have to say I was impressed. And the fact that his body was so fit, muscular, without any fat just made his organ seem bigger and more impressive. My god, he was bigger than my husband!

Chris’s eyes followed my every movement. I don’t think he could see anything behind his big dick, but I knew he could feel the cold Gelder against the tender neck of his sac. And his eyes followed me. He looked so pitiful, so pleading, like a little boy whose favorite toy was broken. But it wasn’t a child’s toy he was concerned about—it was a man’s toy, his toy, the massive pole rising up from between his legs. His manhood, the tool of his pleasure and the balls that powered them. He was losing them, he knew, before he had ever really used them—just his hand. His eyes were wet with fear and anger. But he said no words. He just breathed, his chest heaving under the tight strap.

“Are you ready Chris,” I said, my hand resting on his hairless thigh.

His mouth hung open. I heard his breath quicken between his pale pink lips. His features were—cute is the best word. They were strong and masculine, but where not yet chiseled and hard as a man’s when he reached full maturity in body and mind. He was still a teenager, a young man. Soon to be a young gelding.

“Please,” he said. His brow furled. He squeezed his eyes shut as if he expected to be struck. “Tha, hea,hea,” he whimpered.

And that was when I did it. I was within my rights to do it, although I usually don’t. But this young man was so helpless, so in despair, so cute, so masculine—I just couldn’t bear to leave him like that. I leaned over, holding my breath. And with a flexed tongue, I liked the flared “V” that formed the underside of he straining male helmet. I liked it, letting the stiff tip of my tongue trace the curved line of his flared rim.

“Huuuhhhhhh,” his eyes shot open into wide saucers. He nearly choked on his one swift intake of air. And his entire male body, the muscles of his biceps and of his thighs, they shivered in one quivering spasm of surprised pleasure.

My hand gripped his shaft. I felt its warm firmness against my pale. My slender fingers wrapped around the pole, feeling the large veins that powered it through the soft thin skin of his shaft. My fingertips barely touched my thumb as I moved my hand from the base of his shaft towards the tip in a slow pull. I couldn’t help comparing his organ to the only penis I was completely familiar with—my husbands. It was certainly longer, by a head length at least. Buy my God, it was so much thicker. And as I stroked up his pole, my fingers slide over the tight, soft outer skin of his shaft. The head of his prick was so plump, flared so wide. A tingle between my legs caused me to wonder what that flared mushroom cap, the vanguard of his mighty shaft pushed forward by a hump of his strong hips and tense ass, would feel like as it popped past my pussy lips. My fingers griped his shaft tightly, pressing the tunnel of his urethra. When I was halfway up his shaft, a single bead of clear fluid dotted the slit at the end of his spear. When my thumb reached the brown scar line of his circumcision, grazing the band of pinkish-brown skin that ringed the inch of flesh below his glans, I leaned over again.

His eyes still watched me, my every move. But he still somehow looked scared, with his wide eyes and the straps on his forehead and chin. It was the only time her had felt this, I knew. It was the first time anything but his hand had pleasured his manly organ. I stroked down on his shaft and blew a deep warm breath over the underside of his cock. And when my fist ringed his base, and my little finger pressed into his tangled brown crop of sex hair now matted with swear, I lowered my head. I took his plump red-purple knob into my mouth. His spearhead was so plump and wide that the ring of my lips pressed on every side of it. My mouth was stretched wide, my lips tight over my teeth. I felt my lips pop past the rim of his cheer, and I sucked it with all my might. I felt the lad’s ass muscles tense, as he tried to push his pole into my mouth. But with the straps across his waist, his instinct to thrust was useless. The saliva in my mouth bathed his head as my sucking pulled it toward the back of my throat. I rolled my tongue of his knob, swabbing it from side to side, feeling the curve and slop of his mushroom, tasting the saltiness of his pre-seed. And when my long single suck was exhausted, I rested my tongue against the “V” underside of his organ head. And I swallowed the spit and salty seed in the back of my mouth. And the motion of my swallow, the spasm of my warm sandpaper tongue on his knob, the warm softness of my inner cheeks, they were too much for the young virgin buck.

“Hhhhhhhaaaaaaaa,” I heard him breath.

With a slurping POP, I let his cherry, already throbbing in the first moments of orgasm, slip from my lips. His face tensed, his eyes squinted, but they remained open, staring at my face and his quivering member. I pulled my hand swiftly up his shaft, to the ridge behind his helmet, and slowly, with a single pull, I stroked his thick organ from head to base. I knew the muscles between his legs, deep in his male pelvis, where tensing, massaging his prostate from within, preparing to expel the seed his male body had created in his balls.

“NNNnnuuuuugggggg,” he panted, his mouth hanging open. His tense face grimaced as if in pain. But he kept his eyes open, trained on his fat member in my hand.

When my hard grip passed the brown line of his circumcision scar, the first massive spasm began. I felt his shaft convulse in my first. I felt a spasm and a pulse in the long tube of his urethra. I literally saw his flared wide knob throb as the first jet of his seed spurted from his spear in a long rope. It splashed against his upper stomach. And he grunted. His thigh muscles were as tense and hard as steal. The second spasm, stronger than the first, sent a stream of warm white seed splattering onto his chest. The third was weaker; and the forth, and the fifth. Six thick ropes of seed in all splattered on his tense stomach. And when it was over, and the spasms in his groin finally slowed and ceased, the lad closed his eyes, and groaned the deep groan of a satisfied male.

My hand was at his base once again as his breathing slowed and the spasming in his organ finally stopped. Just two strokes and a suck were all it took to get the young buck off. God, he was a horny little stud. When his eyes opened, their were wet and weary. His eyebrows were drenched with sweet. As his muscles of his entire frame relaxed, a satisfied sleepiness cascaded over his body. But I knew there would be no time for him to relax.

I walked around to the end of the table. I put my hand on his large right foot and felt to warmness of his body. I’m sure his foot was still tingling, like the rest of his body. And his eyes still watched me. I reached for the joystick between his feet. It felt cold and thin in my hand, which still felt the echo of his massive tool. I pressed my thumb to the red button at the top. And looked up at the young virgin. The sweat of his final pleasure still clung to his body. The fluid of his first blow job pooled and dripped into the ridges and valleys of his muscled stomach and chest, leaving only the thick white seed where it had splattered. I saw that his tan sac was not tight against the Gelder. His orbs had naturally tried to pull close to his underbody as his orgasm neared. It didn’t matter. The Gelder was locked in place. Everything was ready.

The timing was up to me. I pressed the button slowly, feeling the heavy resistance against my thumb. The silver donut that made a circular frame around his tan-brown sac began to move. The inner mechanism began its cruel work. Like the iris of a camera, the donut turned and tightened.

Chris felt the pressure. He felt the pressure against the neck of his tender sack. He squinted his eyes, just as he had before his orgasm convulsed his body. And his innocent eyes stared at me, pleading. “Please,” he said. “Please, not my balls.” He tried to shake his head, but the restraints held him firm. “Please, I want to be a man.” His voice was even, flat. Deep like a man’s voice.

I felt the resistance of the button stiffen. And I knew from experience that the time was near. The inner iris of the Gelder turned and twisted, pinching off the cords that nourished his twin baby-makers. But he would be no father, no husband. No man. I put more pressure on the button, felt it resist my thumb.

Chris closed his eyes tight. His face twisted in a mask of pain. His dark eyebrows tensed together. His mouth hung open. “Nnnnuuuuggooooooooooo,” he grunted. “Nooonoooooo. My ballsssssss. Huuh, huhh, huhh. No, no, please.”

I saw his spent dick, softening quickly, loll over onto his thigh. Such an impressive organ. Soon to be a powerless useless noodle. Never to feel the warm wet inside of a woman.

“Oh GOD!” he grunted like a virgin in the arms of his first woman. But with more desperation. More terror.

I felt the button give way under my thumb. And the force of pressure I had been using on the joystick suddenly pressed the button all the way down. And the mechanism click. And with a sudden twist, the poor lad’s plump tan sack was pinched from his body. I saw it fall free from the silver donut, plopping on the table like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

“Nniuuughhhhhhh,” the gelded lad grunted, but he didn’t scream. He was in shock, I knew, feeling the insane tightness and weakness between his legs.

Through the now empty hole of the Gelder, I saw the puckered twisted knot where the neutered teen’s testicles had once dangled from his body. It was like when his navel was tied. He was born again as a steer. It was a clean castration, no blood.

Chris’s body began to convulse and tense, not so much different than when his body had been rocked by his emission and ejaculation. But he wasn’t a man now. He wasn’t even a boy. My own son, a year younger and doubtless with a smaller sex organ than this lad had, was more of a man than he would ever be.

I walked around the table, stopping by his hip as I had when I blew him to climax. Unsnapping the lock on the Gelder, I slid it back into place at the foot of the bed. As I locked it once again in its starting position, I watched the neutered lad’s large feet flex and his toes twitch. He wasn’t a man now.

As I walked past his hip once more, I noticed that his eyes were open again. They saw me, and knew me. The were tired and vacant, but their were aware. I picked up the severed tan bag of his manhood from the table. It was still warm in my hand; the two firm orbs pressed into my palm. I had in my hand the tender flesh and the sensitive eggs that had made this strapping young buck a virile strong male.

Now, he was a quivering spent neutered human boy. His desire and pleasure gone forever. As I walked by the head of the table, I dropped his ripe sack of balls onto his chest. It hit the tight hairless flesh of his chest with a SLAP, and rolled through the streaks of his seed to rest in the ripped muscles of his stomach.

“Mma,mma,mma,” the gelding whimpered as he felt his balls against his skin.

As I walked by, I tossed the wet brown hair of his head as one might do to a favorite son who made good. I smelled the musk of his sweaty manhood on my hand. And I smiled at him. It was so simple. Just a standard castration.