By Justoneguy

The young bull bucked and jerked against the restraints that held him face down onto the bed. His arms were tied to either pole of the headboard with his feet, flat on the floor, tied to the feet of the bed. The bull’s body was bent at the waist, with the mighty muscles of his chest and stomach pressed against the soft sheets of the bed. I watched the muscles mighty bull’s back ripple and flex as he tried to heave his heavy frame from the bed. But the restraints held the bull firmly in place. The hoarse deep grunts and screaming cries of defiance that called from behind the cloth and rubber gag in the bull’s mouth filled my ears. The tufts of black hairs under his arms were damp with sweat. The bull’s biceps bulged into strong mounds of muscle as he pulled at the ropes that bound him in place—and bound him to his fate.

As the young buck tugged and screamed his muffled cries of fear and defiance, I took a final look at his mighty masculine form. His butt was in the air, straining and flexing, all muscle, as if he were preparing to penetrate his mate. I wondered how many times this young bull had penetrated a love. Many, many times, I knew. And he had been such a good lover—making the females under him squirm and cry out with pleasure. Or making the women who rode his mighty pole like he was her stallion cry out and quiver as she hung on for the ride. How many times had he sunk his prong deep into the soft wetness of a pussy, and how many times had a willing, panting woman clutched his mighty back and firm butt as the pleasure his manhood gave her overwhelmed her body? His male organ, although I couldn’t see it now, was a mighty piece of male flesh. It was circumcised—a bull without his sheath—from birth, and was above average in size. The bull was proud of it, no doubt. Which would add to his humiliation and sorrow when his mighty manhood is reduced to a permanent floppy noodle. His balls are between his legs, hanging down in a compact but loose sac. I look at his bull balls, already tied with the band that will deep the bull alive once I have removed them. The bull’s balls are slightly tanner than the rest of his skin—a sign that they are ripe and mature. They—those twin hanging oysters between his straining legs—are what was powering the strength and spirit of this bull. Without them, he wouldn’t be a bull. He wouldn’t want women, he wouldn’t desire sex and orgasms and ejaculations. Without them, his body wouldn’t be fit and toned and strong. Without them, he wouldn’t be a bull.

I reached out and took his bag of bull balls into my hand. They were warm to the touch, and had a sheen of sweat from their owner’s struggles. They felt loose, soft skinned but with firm orbs underneath. The bull could feel me holding them. He jerked with all his might then, trying desperately to save the most sensitive and important flesh of his body. The skin of his sack felt so velvety to my hand; the orbs within so firm but soft. The bag was so important to the bull. It was his manhood.

I took the knife from my pocket and held his warm sack of babymakers steady. “Just hold still, young bull. It will only hurt for a moment.” The bull’s butt muscles tensed and his body broke into a cold sweat. I put the blade against the edge of the band and let it rest there for just a moment—the moment between strength and weakness, between desire and ambivalence, between manhood and nothing. The bull whimpered into his gag. And then I sliced.

His bag came free in my hand, and I held his bull balls loosely in my right hand. The bull’s body convulsed and spasmed. I could see drool coating the pillow around his mouth. His eyes were open, but dull and unseeing. “Nnuuunngggg, nnuuughhhhhh,” where the straining sounds from behind his gag. And as I looked at the castrated balls in my hand, and thought of the meal of breaded and fried prairie oysters I would eat tonight and of the tanned and dried change purse I would make for his velvet scrotum, I chuckled to myself. This young bull was now and forever a steer—a gelding—a neutered sexless steer.