“Do you want something special?“, he’d asked.

I’d smirked, meaning yes, sure, why not? What an idiot and now I’m hanging here.

Just a bar, a stupid old gay joint in a stupid town. No, that’s wrong – the only stupid one is me. I can see that now. I can feel it in my limbs, my arms and legs, stretched.

I’m a salesman and I come to a lot of towns. And bars.

The guy was cute. In fact, he still is cute – surely not much over twenty, good physique, boyish features – but now he is also menacing.

Had I initiated the talking? Had he? Who cares, and then he said he had a farmhouse just up the road and would I care to come along? Just like that. And just like that I sure as hell had come along. My dick was doing the thinking. Bad idea but then I’m a male and stupid, at that.

I should have balked when he asked whether I minded a little bondage. Not that I haven’t done it before – but with a complete stranger? Well, I didn’t mind since by that time he’d had me naked and oh so horny. He was stroking me extremely tenderly and my cock had long taken over. Plus three whiskeys, of course.

He led me to this room and I should really have run when I saw the ropes on rolls hanging from the ceiling and the ones anchored to the floor. Why didn’t I run? Easy. Because, yeah, I’m stupid and I was excited. His soft voice, his tender hands, his peasant’s smell. He said he’d be real gentle. And he was – until my wrists and ankles were securely tied. To think that I was thrilled when he started pulling me up and my feet finally left the ground. I became a precum-leaking hard-on as my body was stretched so tightly I couldn’t move anymore. But soon things got uncomfortable. I moaned.

“Hey, this is too tight ...”

That was when his voice changed.

“It is supposed to be tight. So you won’t thrash around when I start.”

He smiled and this smile was arctic.

“By the way – you can scream as loud as you please. There’s no one who will hear you. In fact you will scream.”

At first I laughed as if this were a joke though I suspect I already knew it wasn’t one. Then I begged. I tried to reason. I begged. I screamed and shouted. I begged. He took no note. Only his cock grew even huger and harder, the red head the colour of a firestorm.

“Right”, he says now, wielding a scalpel, stepping on a chair, coming close. “I think we will start with your left nipple. Just a little foreplay so you see that I mean business.”

At first he caresses it then starts to twist it, groping ever harder.

“Please don’t ...”, stupid me whispers. My arms and legs are killing me. He grasps my nipple and draws it away from my body. I moan, try to pull away – how ridiculous. He places the scalpel at the root of my nipple and looks at me with bottomless eyes. I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it – until he cuts. It doesn’t take much of an effort, the scalpel is in prime condition and my nipple comes off. Just like that. Like it were nothing. Yes, there is pain but what really makes me whimper is this incredible sight. His calloused fingers holding this little brownish piece of flesh. This little brownish piece of my fucking flesh. A small nipple, something I’d been born with, something that should rightfully still be attached to my body. Yet it isn’t. The guy has just cut it off. Simply cut it off because he has the power to and I’m helplessly spread out, completely naked and utterly vulnerable. He’d said he’d show me that he meant business. And he has shown me. He has just mutilated me and no one and nothing has intervened. I close my eyes. I’m feeling dizzy. And then, without consciously wanting to I scream my head off. My body shakes, it twists and turns, fruitlessly trying to escape the inescepable ropes that bind me to this fate. But soon the fit is over. I’m sweating and when I open my teary eyes I can see that he has thrown the nipple to the floor. There it lies, so small and unimportant, just a piece of discarded flesh. But, oh goodness, it is my piece of flesh, a part of my body, a part of me ...

He grabs my right nipple and I know what he’s going to do and I know there is nothing I can do to prevent what’s coming. It is inevitable, yet still I beg again:

“Please, don’t do it, please, I’ll do anything you want, just stop this. Please ...”

Anyone ever heard more futile words?

“Oh, but you are already doing what I want. Your body is already providing me pleasure – and it will continue to do so. But you can keep on begging if you want to, I don’t mind. Or scream. Or whatever.”

I shut up and with one easy cut my second nipple is separated from my breast. I just hold my breath and bite my lips, don’t know why I don’t make a sound. Maybe he’ll stop when I comply. Yeah, and hell is an icy place ...

He steps down from the chair and cups my balls with his left hand.

“And now for the piece de resistance. This will hurt a lot more, I’m afraid.”

I’m thinking, no, he won’t do this, no, not this, he can’t do it, he can’t ... I won’t think the word, no I won’t think it, I just simply won’t ...

“You still don’t believe it, do you? Well, they never do – until it happens, that is.”

They? How many more ...

Right now I’m paralyzed. I wouldn’t be able to move even if those fucking ropes weren’t stretching my body to the limit. But then, out of its own volition, my head bows down. Why? Why am I not closing my eyes, why am I watching even though my cock is obscuring the view? I can feel the scalpel at the top of my sac. It is so cold. He puts pressure on it and the blade starts cutting into my skin, sliding through my skin, parting my skin. The pain is unbelievable as is the fact that it’s actually happening, that a blade is opening up my scrotum, that I’m about to be ... no, I won’t think it, I won’t think the word ... but there it is ... castration. I’m about to be castrated. Me. My body. My balls.

Still the scalpel keeps relentlessly, deliberately cutting until it has reached the bottom of my sac. I feel and don’t feel the pain. I believe it. I don’t believe it. I’m horrified. I keep looking.

He smiles up at me.

“Now for the goods.”

And slowly he peels my balls out of the sac, lets them hang by their cords, way below my shrivelled scrotum. He touches them, caresses them, oh my god, he licks them. I feel continually hit by a truck. He cups them in the palm of his hand and shows them to me. Can anyone get this? He shows my balls to me. These are my balls. Still attached to my body by the cords, but out in the open, out of their resting place, out of their sac, tender, vulnerable, doomed. I can’t believe this. The pain tells me I can believe this. My bleary eyes tell me so, too.

And another man, a stranger, holds them in his palm and strokes them gently, yet each stroke feels like a hammer blow. Maybe not really, maybe only in my mind, I can’t differ anymore. He has them in his power, the seat of my manhood, any man’s most prized posession, fuck, my whole being. And, there is no doubt, he’s going to take them.

“Don’t worry”, he whispers. “I won’t hurt them. I want them whole.”

Don’t worry ...

I almost have to laugh. Don’t worry. This man is about to emasculate me and tells me not to worry.

One ball drops, dangling in the air by its cord, the other is still in his hand. And the scalpel in his other one.

“Okay, here goes number one.”

He sets the blade to the cord. I still don’t scream. I stare. Thinking, no ...

With no effort he cuts through the cord and my ball comes off.

That’s when I scream. The whole room reverberates with my pain and frustration, with my helplessness, my loss. And all the time these words keep turning in my mind: it has really been done, my ball has been cut off my body, it has really been done, my ball has been cut off my body, it has really ...

I don’t know how long it takes until I’m not screaming anymore, just sobbing and blubbering. Finally I can’t help it, I have to look down again – just in time to see him carefully placing the ball on the floor. My ball. On the floor. Not in its sac. Not attached to my body. Anymore. Nevermore.

Then something else catches my eye. Something that simply cannot be. I blink, try to get the tears out of my eyes. It is still there. My cock. Hard. As. Hell. I’m having a fucking erection.

He must have seen my incredulous look for he smiles and says:

“Don’t worry. That is not unusual in situations of stress. Many delinquents have a hard-on before their execution. Or maybe”, his eyes twinkle, “you just enjoy being castrated?”

“You must be kidding.”

I don’t believe I said this out loud. And in such a calm voice. Am I losing my mind?

“All right. On with the work. For, as leading surgeons tell us, you won’t be completely emasculated until the second one is gone, as well, will you?”

I’m no longer capable of coherent thought as he takes the ball that is still literally hanging on to my body into his hand. A swisft cut, a sharp pain and it’s done. Really done. I’m completely balless now. Castrated, emasculated, de-manned. A fucking neutrum. Wrong, a no-longer-fucking neutrum, a nevermore fucking neutrum – with a ludicrous hard-on that still hasn’t gone down. But, hey Jude, it will ... never to reappear.

I’m reduced to a sobbing wreck while he places the second ball beside the first one on the floor. No longer my balls. Never again my balls. His. Forever.

But he is not done yet.

“I don’t think you’ll need this thing anymore, do you?”

And carefully he cuts my empty, useless ball-sac off at the base. Yes, it hurts, but I’m spent. And then there is nothing hanging below my still raging erection anymore. Just as there is no fight left in me. I’m defeated. I don’t care anymore. Maybe that is why prisoners of war were castrated. Did they feel the same? Hell, sure they did. I know. Now. For I’m one of them. Of the castrato, that is.

There is just one thing.

“Why?” I croak.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Because.”

And, of course, he is right.