BULL BALLS

I was born and raised on a cattle ranch, and because of that fact I've been saddled with a fetish, or fantasy if you prefer, for as long as I can remember.

Maybe it'd help you understand just how strong my fetish is if I explain that I'm a woman in my mid-thirties, and I've had my particular fetish for at least thirty years.  As far as I know, it's essentially unchanged from the time it first took possession of my brain.  I can remember the occasion as if it happened only yesterday.

I was the last child born to my parents, the "baby" of the family all my life.  For that reason, I led a sheltered life, and it seemed as if I was constantly supervised by either my parents or my two older brothers.  That's why it was frightening, and so memorable to me, when I looked around one day and saw I was all by myself in the house.  I was five years old, and seemed to be curious about everything, and it was that curiosity, as well as my fear of being alone, that led me to try to find out where everyone was, and what they were doing.

I remember going out the back door of the house, and heading for the barn to see if that's where my mom, dad, and brothers were.  There were some strange pickup trucks by the barn, so I was sure that something interesting was going on there.

There were cattle pens behind the barn, and I could hear voices and activity from that area as I walked through the building.  No one had seen me yet, and I thought it would be fun to sneak up on them, and give everyone a surprise.  As it turned out, I was the one who was surprised.

I stood on a bale of hay under one of the barn windows, looking out toward the group of people standing by one of the pens.  I saw Daddy and my brothers Bennie and Frankie.  There were some other men there, and all of them were watching what was happening in the pen.

Even though I'd lived on a cattle ranch for five years, I'd never seen what happened that day.  I'm sure you're way ahead of me, and already know what was going on.  You're right.  One of the bulls was being introduced to a cow in heat, with the expected result.

The ground behind the barn sloped downward, and the cow was standing with her head away from me, so I had a good view of the activities.  I saw the bull sniffing her rear end and then holding his nose high in the air as he inhaled a big breath of air.  He then proceeded to mount her and do what bulls do.

To my child's brain, the whole scene was very fascinating.  Of course, I had no idea what was going on, but it was obvious it was interesting to the men gathered at the fence.  The bull had their undivided attention, just as he had mine.

I don't know what the others were watching, but the thing that burned its way into my brain was the large, pink bag between the bull's hind legs.  I had no idea what it was, but there was something about the way it swayed and bounced that seemed to fascinate me.  Even now, more than thirty years later, I can still visualize every wrinkle in the thing, and see it slapping against the cow's butt as the bull bred her.

I was startled by Mamma's hand on my shoulder then, and was brought back to reality as she said, "There you are.  Can't I even go to the bathroom without you running off?"  She must have looked out the window then, for the next thing she said was, "You don't need to be watching that.  It's not for little girls."  She then took my hand and led me back to the house.

As I grew older, other occasions to watch breeding happened in the natural course of events, and the part that was always the most fascinating was that great big bag.  I was always entranced by the thing, and never got enough of watching it swaying and bouncing as the bull went about his job.

There were several breeding bulls on the ranch, but the one I remember more than the others was named Sir Galahad.  He was a Brahma, and looked like a giant compared to the other livestock.  As could be expected, his bag was also larger than the other bulls, and I never missed a chance to see him in the breeding pen.  I don't know how many times I watched him mount one of the cows, but do know that I never tired of seeing his huge sac slapping against her rear end as he pumped away.

I don't know just when it was that I saw castrations being performed on the yearling calves, but it couldn't have been much more than two or three years after that fateful trip to the barn.  By that time, I was allowed to be unsupervised most of the time, and liked to play in the hayloft, or "spy" on Daddy and my brothers as they did the farm work.

They were in the cattle pens again when the next part of my fetish found fertile ground in my brain.  About a dozen of the bull calves had been confined there, and as I watched, they were herded one at a time into the squeeze chute.  For you city folks, just think of two panels made from pipes welded together into a framework like a fence, and placed side-by-side, about two feet apart.  The livestock would be driven between the panels, and then be held firmly in place by bringing the panels together, thus the "squeeze" part of the name.

I watched in fascination as the calves were squeezed one at a time, and then as Daddy used his pocket knife to castrate them.  The calves bellowed and tried to kick, but of course the panels held them in place.  As soon as their balls had hit the bucket, the chute was opened so the first calf could run out, and the second could take his place.

Given my fascination with a bull's balls, it's no surprise that my eyes were drawn to that part of the calve's anatomy.  It was pretty obvious, even to my little girl's eyes, that there was a huge disparity in size between what these guys had, and what the bulls displayed when they mounted the cows.  I think it was then I began to believe that big balls equaled ability to breed, and small balls were worthless, and should be cut off.  Even given all the years between then and now, I still can't overcome that belief.

There is another thing that happened during my childhood that's still fresh in my mind.  I was probably ten years old when it happened.  I had come running into the house, looking for my big brother Bennie. I have no idea why I was in such a rush to find him, just remember being so.

I was sure he was in his room, and even though the door was closed, I rushed in.  He was in the act of changing his clothes right then, and was completely naked when I saw him.  He grabbed his jeans and held them in front of his body, and then yelled at me to get out.

I left his room right away, of course, but the vision I had then is with me to this day.  I'll never forget the sight of his sac, which was tiny in comparison to the bull's, and even smaller than the calves.  I'll remember always the feeling that swept over me as I realized that my brother would never be allowed to breed the cows, and would instead soon be castrated.  I was sure Daddy would put him in the squeeze chute before much longer, and then cut off his balls.  Like I said, I was just a little kid.

Somehow I began to think that Bennie would be castrated that day, and he was probably in his room undressing so he'd be ready for it to be done to him.  The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that was the case.  I ran straight for the barn and into the tack room, because that's where the window was that gave me the best view of the squeeze chute.  I climbed up on a bench under the window and waited, certain that in a few minutes I'd see my brother being placed in the chute, and then castrated.  I can't describe my memory of what I was feeling then as "sexual" in nature, but do know that I was pretty excited.

After about 15 minutes, I heard a car start and then drive away.  I had about given up on seeing Bennie castrated that day, so I ran to the barn door to see who was leaving.  It was Bennie's car, and I knew then there wasn't any reason to wait any longer in the barn.

I went back to the house and asked Mamma where Bennie was going, and she told me he had a date with his girlfriend.  Although I didn't say anything, I remember wanting to ask her if that's who would be castrating him.  I supposed that Daddy didn't want to do it, since he seemed to like Bennie quite a bit and probably didn't want to hurt him.  Like I said, I was just a little kid.

The final piece of my fascination with big balls fell in place when we were at my Grandpa and Grandma's house one Thanksgiving.  I was ten years old then, and had witnessed lots of breedings and castrations, all of which seemed to reinforce my idea that big balls equaled ability to mount the cows, and small balls meant the squeeze chute.

My grandparents were lifetime subscribers to National Geographic Magazine, and I doubt they had ever thrown away a single issue.  There was a spare bedroom in their house that had a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and every shelf held back issues of the magazine.  I loved to go to that room and look through them, being especially entranced by the photographs of exotic places.  It was one of those photos that still figures prominently in my fetish.

I don't recall what the article was about, but assume it focused on tropical diseases.  There was one picture that I stared at for a long time then, and seemed to seek out every time I visited there again.  It showed an African native who had a disease called "elephantiasis", which is a parasitic affliction that causes body parts to become grossly large.  In this case, the man's sac was actually so large that he had to place it in a wheelbarrow in order to walk.  I'll never forget staring at that photo, all the while thinking, "Boy, I'll bet he gets all the cows he wants." 

Still just a little kid, but old enough to form some pretty strong impressions.
________________

That should be enough to establish the roots of my fetish, so let's fast forward now to when I was old enough to start dating.  My parents were pretty strict, and I was 16 years old when I was first allowed to have an unsupervised date with a boy.  I'm sure I fretted about being treated like a child, but feel sure now that if I had children of my own, I'd raise them the same way.

The first few dates I had were pretty innocent things, and featured movies and a little bit of hand holding.  It wasn't until I was a junior in high school that my boyfriend, who was a year older, drove out to a high point in the country and parked his car alongside the road so we could "look at the city lights," as he put it.  Of course, we spent the time kissing and touching each other.

I remember it as the first time in my life when I'd actually been sexually aroused by a boy's attentions.  We were going at it hot and heavy, and were at the stage where he had my blouse and bra in the back seat, and my jeans unfastened.  I had been caressing his erection through his jeans while he played with my tits with one hand, and rubbed my crotch through my panties with the other.

At some point, he unfastened his pants, giving me freer access to get my hand in them, and I began to rub his penis through his undershorts.  Even given what I'd learned about sex since my childhood experiences, I still had a fascination with balls.  I guess that's why my hand seemed to work lower and lower until it was over that part of his anatomy.

I know now that his sac was drawn up tightly to his crotch, but at the time I was shocked by the tiny size of what I was feeling down there.  I'll never forget my first impression that he'd been castrated, because his balls were too small.  I know it wasn't logical, but in my mind that meant he wasn't a "breeder," and therefore wasn't suitable husband material.

As that train of thought ran through my mind, I seemed to lose my sexual excitement.  He was still pretty turned on, of course, and wouldn't leave me alone and take me home.  I made the calculated decision to put an end to his advances, and gripped his penis through his undershorts and began to stroke it.  He climaxed in a few seconds, of course, and we put our clothes back in order and drove home.

I had other dates in high school, but none of them ever again led to heavy petting.  There was just something about the shock of finding that my former boyfriend had such tiny balls that seemed to cause me to lose sexual interest in boys.  It seemed as if my fetish had marked me for life, and maybe I'd end up as an old maid.
___________________

I moved away from home to attend college in another state in the Pacific Northwest.  There was never any doubt about what my major would be, since I had developed an interest in science while still in high school.  As I worked my way through my college career, my interests began to specialize in chemistry, and then even further towards the study of monomer and polymer plastics, especially on ways to manipulate their structure to create new compounds.

By the time I had completed my undergraduate degree, I knew I still didn't know enough, and so with the help of my favorite professor, applied for and was granted a scholarship to pursue my Masters degree at the same college.

I suppose I don't have to tell you my interest in boys was pretty minimal during those four years.  That's probably due in great part to my fantasy, but also to the extreme dedication I had to classwork.  That changed during the first summer I was a graduate student, and it changed in a big way.

My college was less than 150 miles from Vancouver, Canada, and it was common for students to drive up there for a weekend's fun.  Specifically, the place where they would go was known as Wreck Beach, and its attraction was that it's a nude beach.

Two of my girlfriends talked me into going with them one weekend during that summer, and what happened then changed my life forever.  If you've already guessed it involved big balls, you're right.

We left Friday after classes, planning to find a cheap motel in Vancouver to spend our mini-vacation.  We spent the night sharing a single room to save money, and by noon the next day arrived at the beach.  The place was pretty informal, and there were no rules that required nudity.  I guess it'd be more accurate to describe it as a "clothing optional" beach.

Both my friends had been there several times before, and felt comfortable enough to take off all their clothes.  I wasn't nearly so comfortable, but did yield to convention by wearing a string bikini.  It seemed as if I spent all my time tucking my pubic hair back in the thing, because I wasn't at all comfortable with displaying my body.

Most of the other people there didn't have my reticence, and I learned more about human anatomy in one hour than I'd done in the previous 22 years.  Most of all, though, I learned that the balls on men can in no way compare to those on a bull.  To say I was disappointed would be putting it mildly, because I had been secretly thrilled at the chance to see lots of male crotches, sure that a least a few of them would be up to my "standards."

We spent the day at the beach, fending off all the pick-up artists who seemed to be in great abundance.  They seemed to think that just because a woman was naked meant she was "easy."  Most of their attempts were so childish that we just brushed them off or ignored them, and after awhile they went away to find easier pickings.

We planned to go back to the beach for a few hours on Sunday morning, and then return home in the afternoon.  We arrived in the late morning, and since it was a beautiful, warm day, the place was already busy.  Again my friends removed all their clothing, and I yielded to their blandishments by wearing only my bikini bottom.  There is no way to explain just how naked I felt with my breasts exposed like that, but I have to admit that all the admiring glances made it worth it.

About an hour before we were to leave, we were lying on beach towels, soaking up the last of the rays, and working on our tans.  I was lying on my back, wearing only the bottom part of my bikini and a pair of sunglasses.  I think my eyes were closed as I relaxed in the warm sunlight, regretting that in about an hour we'd have to be on our way home.

A shadow fell over my head, and unlike all the ones before it, didn't move on.  I opened my eyes to see who was standing there, and was shocked into a dumbfounded silence.