By justoneguy

The strong marine steer was carried from the stage in short order. The wet slickness in my pants was a testament to the quality of the third round of the game. As I sunk deep into my leather chair, sipping a light mixed drink, it seemed that the night couldn’t get any more interesting. With the exception of the first bull, the Spanish lad—of whom the less said the better, the entire herd of the night was excellent. Well, decidedly that, it was extraordinary. Two Americans in one night? Both military men and not just toughs off the street? And both such fine catches in their own contradictory ways. One a young stallion with so much natural talent that, while still in his teens, had made a herder scream with orgasmic pleasure. The other, a mature bull not yet out of his 20’s, a loyal and loving husband and father of two boys, a red blooded American patriot.

No mater what I thought of him personally or of his political tactics in the Association, Nikos certainly deserved kudos for his part in making the night happen. Both the two soldiers were from his private prisoners from the Mid East engagement. He could have had them sold off on the general block, where they stood about as good a chance of being adapted into Association commandos as of being made pussy steers. Or he could have arranged extradition for them back to their own countries under a legitimate governmental cover. Either way, it would have meant a nice profit for himself. But he knew how to play the Association game. And both the specimens had ended up here, as entertainment for his peers. As it was, Nikos had still won the younger steer, but I had stolen the older from him (at the cost of a large sum of money, mind you). But his generous gift of the prisoners for the club’s herd no doubt would go a long way toward soothing over hard feelings among his peers over his role in the Mid East debacle.

As I sat back, pretty much alone and unnoticed, Nikos was celebrated. The quarter of the club on his side of the stage was by far the most densely packed with people. (Although Havous’s chair was very popular as well.) I could see folks slapping his shoulder and shaking his hand. Another lit his cigar with his own lighter, then slipped it to Nikos as a gift.

I didn’t envy Nikos his popularity or his position. The quiet of my corner gave me some time to consider my plans for the strong marine steer that I had acquired moments ago. Those plans were only then forming in my mind. And, to be completely honest, I was happy enough to not have so many people around that could possibly spot the wet stain on the front of my trousers. And, even more so, great power and great visibility can lead to ruin as well as glory. Nikos might be getting the smile, the thanks, and the cheers now. But by virtue of his powerful position in the association, he was exposed to great risk when the Mid East erupted. It was his responsibility to see that things went smoothly, and they hadn’t. He might have been able to shift blame to the commander on the ground this time, a fellow named Lars. And he might have assuaged much of the ill feeling toward him with some expert showmanship and well-timed generosity. But he might not be so lucky next time. Personally, my own investments and projects are so low key, even if complete disaster were to happen in my domain, I doubt the Association would take very much notice. For this, I receive little recognition or glory. But I also live comfortably with little risk.

The herders were just about finished clearing the stage for the fourth round. To be honest, I wasn’t particularly interested. During the last round, I had sweated in my clothes, which now clung to my skin in uncomfortable wrinkles. And the wetness in the front of my pants was quickly becoming cold and sticky. Besides, I had blown all my money out bidding Nikos for the strong marine steer. The excitement that Nikos’s promise of surprises to come in the night seemed completely fulfilled.

And then the lights of the stage whirled into life. The herders double-checked each of the four remaining gelding cables, one stretching form the stage to each of the VIP tables. And a single, lone man strolled to the center of the stage. He was a short man, but meticulously dressed in a fine tuxedo. His head was bald except for a horseshoe of finely cut white hard that stretched form ear to ear. His bearing was dignified and theatrical. In his hand, he carried a cordless microphone.

Raising the mic to his mouth, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen!”

My god, it was the announcer. I had never seen him before. His voice was so familiar; it was strange to see it coming from an actual person and not disembodied over the sound system. The strong, determined, and excited voice didn’t seem to match the slight older man. This was certainly unexpected.

“Ladies and gentlemen, might I have your attention and your respectful silence. This is a very solemn moment. An unprecedented moment in the history of the club.”

That certainly got everyone’s attention. And even with all the alcohol and all the excitement of seeing two American studs castrated before their very eyes, the guests of the club quieted into a murmur.

“As you all know, our Association has experiences significant setbacks in recent weeks. This is especially true of the Middle Eastern sector administered by our VIP guest Nikos.” The announcer offered a respectful nod toward Nikos’s chair. And Nikos returned it with solemn respect. “The Association high command has determined that, given the extreme nature of the defeat we have collectively suffered, extreme disciplinary measures are warranted. In coordination with the section commander”—again a nod to Nikos—“we have an extraordinary spectacle tonight.” The slim man, with the grim bearing of a funeral director, walked down the side steps of the stage. As he excited, four large screens lowered down creating. Each was 8 feet tall, reaching from the ceiling to the stage floor. The lights dimmed like a theater. When lowered, they created a box over the stage, with one screen pointed in the direction of each VIP chair. “Tonight, our own herd is being thinned. We have a castration of one of our own. And, as always, the final judgement will be in the hands of our VIP guests. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you KRISTER!”

And the giant screens blazed to life. And on them, a young man, 18 years old, dressed in a button up shirt and tan shorts was hustled through the back door of the club. I recognized it because I once had a friend thrown out of the club by that door. Two herders had the young man by the arms, forcing him down the narrow cinderblock hallway with the same force they use to bring the young bulls to the stage. I knew the boy. Krister, the son of Lars, leader of the Mid East mission. He had the look of a privileged, comfortable youth, happy to be able to work easy for great reward. But his clothes were not the tailored suits that sons of the major families wore. He was as close to a working class son of the Association as could be. And he looked scared.

His father was from Northern Germany, but his mother was from the Valley. Their son had the olive skin and dark hair of the locals here. He looked like the tanned son of a Mediterranean businessman, as at home browning by the pool as in a college classroom. His clothes were disheveled. His hair was cut short. It had obviously been combed stylishly to the side at the beginning of the evening. But his black hair was now stuck up this way and that. His eyes were brown, the whites very white. They had snatched him right off the street. I doubted he even knew where he was. But the look on his face betrayed his fear. His father was an important man, a sector captain, a leader of men. No one would dare treat him like this if something wasn’t terribly wrong. And it was.

He walked under his own power, but his shuffling steps tried to delay the group’s progress as much as he dared. Suddenly the announcer blocked their way in the hall. His fine suit was completely out of place in the backroom hallway. The young olive-skinned bull was stopped right in front of the old man. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. He was like a kid with no idea why he was in trouble.

The announcer smiled at him and spoke into the mic. “Welcome, young bull. I’m afraid you have become a part of our little show. You are part of the herd now, and must face the thinning like the others before you.”

I don’t think the young bull knew exactly what the announcer meant, but he knew what those types of terms were affiliated with in the Association. His eyes went wide, and he struggled against the herders. Perhaps he thought in his youthful strength and willfulness that he would could escape the herders. Perhaps he had a vision of himself breaking free and running down the hallway, slamming through the door and booking like a young bull running in the field. But that was a fool’s dream. The herders handled him easily, slamming his back hard against the wall.

“Gag him,” the announcer said. And the herders wrapped a thick white cloth around his face, making him look like a horse with a bit in his mouth.

“Huuyyynnnngg, Huuunnnngggg,” he grunted and snorted through the gag in his mouth. But he couldn’t utter words. It was like they had made him an animal, unable to communicate except with grunts and muffled screams.

“And the mask,” the announcer said. And the herders produced a black ski mask. They shoved it over his head, the fabric stretching as he tried to twist away. When it was in place, only his brown eyes could be seen. The mask bore the red make of traitor—a red flaming sun. The herders tore at his clothes. The buttons of his shirt ripped and clinked on the floor. His chest was broad, olive colored with brown nipples. On his shoulder he bore a small tattoo, the emblem of his family, a scorpion crest.

The announcer turned to the camera. “His family’s incompetence has shone the light of the sun on our operations.” The announcer now began to walk down the hall. The herders tugged and pushed the hooded, half dressed young bull behind him. Two more herders appeared from the side and began tugging and tearing at his tan shorts as he walked. The young bull’s eyes were wide and white with terror as he was dragged down the hall. But he announcer was unflappable, and he talked to the camera like he was guiding a tour of a vintage home. “But he is a young man, a bull just reached the age of maturity. Still, since he is of age and the crimes of his father are so undeniable, he will bare the punishment as well as others. He has been with a pussy steer. His father, Lars, won the gelding here at this very club, and had him turned into a pussy steer for his son’s virgin ride. As you know, it is against the laws of the Association to geld virgin member no matter his crime. He must have known a woman to be counted a TRUE man. And so, this young bull will know a woman. Right now.”

The announcer pushed open two double doors at the end of the hallway. And the screen went black. The club was silent. Only the miniature lamps on each table lighted the stunned faces of the crowd. I heard a few coughs, but no one stirred from their seats.

The screen blazed to life once more. And the herders pushed the now naked bull onto a twin bed in a small room. The walls were still rough unfinished cinderblocks. The bed had no headboard or baseboard. It was just a mattress and a sheet on springs. Herders turned the bull over, the scorpion emblem on his shoulder standing out against his olive skin. He was such a broad shouldered young stud. And the black mask over his face made him seem dangerous.

But the herders had matters well in hand. Held down by so many slender but strong feminine arms, the young bull seemed like a large, strong, powerful animal that was suddenly cornered by creatures he once dominated. His eyes darted from herder to herder. His strong voice—manly, but still with the slightly higher pitch of youth—was lost in the muffle of his gag. The camera work was shaky, and I couldn’t make things out as well as I would like. I saw a herder reach down and pick up a massive pole of flesh from between the poor bull’s legs. My god, what an organ! I remembered teaching Krister when he was younger, still a boy. Nikos’s son Boden had been in the same class. Could that mighty pillar of manhood have been the tool that unassuming boy had grown as he matured? It had to be at least 7.5” long, and thick and wide. The plump head was already unhooded by the time the herder got her hands on it. The lad was so randy. Even with his fear, being naked in a roomful of scantily clad women made it impossible for him not to be hard. The camera angle settled into a shot behind the olive-skinned bull’s head. It looked down over his tanned chest, past his small brown nipples, past the rippling muscles of his stomach. And beyond, where his legs split from his body with bulging thighs, was a healthy crop of thick black pubic hair. And rising from that forest, the mighty tree of his cock, bigger than 90% of men in the world, even though he was only 18.

And we saw through the camera what the young bull saw. I saw a herder, her pants removed, straddled the stallion. One of her sister herders ripped his throbbing organ and stood it up straight, a tremendous spear capped with a purple flared and angular arrowhead pointing toward heaven. And then the herder lowered her body, and that organ—mushroom head, foreskin, shaft—melted and vanished into the warm wetness of her body.

The herder was a professional. But I could tell that she was taking this man-sized organ with difficulty. There was no time to go slow, to loosen her pussy with a few shallow strokes. The game was on a schedule, and the young bull was needed on the stage. And as she rocked back and forth, pulling only halfway up the rigid spike of his manhood before pushing back down, her sisters strove to keep the young bull on the bed and in place. I was amazed that her body could take his wide dick. It must have been so tight for him, feeling the soft, warm, wet walls of her inner femininity completely tight and gripping his male prong. His muscles tensed. As he heaved his chest and his arms and his legs, I saw the development that days at the gym and training for a future in the Association had granted the doomed lad. They wouldn’t help him now, against the herders.

But his trashing forced the camera to spin around toward the base of the bed. There I saw the herder’s tan ass rise and fall, tense and relax. I saw the brownish tan sac, full and wide, filling the space between the bull’s olive, hairless thighs. The young bull’s sac was so tight, with one plump ball pulled to either side of his dick’s wide root. God, they were so big, so plump. Man’s balls framing a man’s dick, between a man’s strong legs. The 18-year-old stud humped and thrashed his hips and legs as he was ridden like a wild bull. It was impossible to tell if he was pumping his dick into the lithe herder to increase his own pleasure or just trying to get away. Either way, the affect was the same. The herder’s pussy was stretched so tight by his organ. Her own cries and grunts were as much from the strain as from the pleasure. I noticed that she rose up a little, to keep the desperate bull from pumping so deep. In fact, she was hardly moving her body at all. He was doing all the work. Finally, she fell over on top of him, raising her pussy further to get more relief from his fat pole. She lay on his flexing and heaving chest, her face against the rough fabric of the traitor’s mask. Her left hand gripped his strong shoulder while her right clawed gently on his neck and cheek. The poor young bull rolled his head against her hand. It was a sign of comfort from the herder I didn’t expect. And it sent to poor buck over the edge.

“MMMmmmmmm,” the bull raged into his gag. His legs when stiff, and the root of his massive organ throbbed and spasmed. His male body was pumping its seed into a woman for the first time. A thick white film formed around the lips of the herder’s spread pussy lips. Her body couldn’t contain the bull’s volume of baby batter.

My god, it had taken only 1 minute! Only a few dozen strokes to bring off the randy buck. It was like he had been raped, forced to copulate against his will—against all the rules of the Association. I don’t know what he was thinking, whether he enjoyed it or was just dazed and confused by the sensation and the stimulation of his first pussy. But one thing was sure, as a young Association man, he knew that the very act of sex to a woman other than his mate had sealed his fate.

On cue, the announcer glided back into view. His old face was crinkled with a smile. But I could tell that his wrinkled brow was dotted with perspiration. Hell, to be in that room and see it in person—a man would have to be dead to not be turned on. “Our young bull is now truly a young man. He has felt the pleasure of true pussy. Will it be his one and only time to experience the delights of his manhood in their full flower? As always, our VIPs will have the choice. But the surprises are not finished yet!”

Behind and to the right of the announcer, I saw the herder begin to stir. She lifted her hips from the olive skinned bull, and his organ popped out of her hole with an audible slurp. His mighty organ was still hard. And his stomach rose and flattened with exhausted labor. The herders pulled him off the bed, and dragged him out of camera view.

“Mmumumu, muummuuh,” he protested into his gag.

The announcer just grinned. “The young bull whose fate is about to be decided did not get to this point on his own. His father was a major factor in his current misfortune. The Association trusted him to manage affairs properly, and he failed to live up to that trust. Now, his son is in jeopardy of his manhood. But the commanding officer on the ground in are Middle Eastern holdings has not been found blameless. Now, live, you will witness his fate.”

The giant screens went dark. A rumble of excited chatter rolled over the smoke filled club. Everyone was pretty drunk now it seemed. Except we VIP players. About the time our eyes adjusted to the darkness, the large screens blazed into life once more. The image was of a conference room. Text at the bottom of the screen read “Jordan.” So I assumed that the location was the Association headquarters of the Middle East. The word “live” stood out in bright blue letters in the upper right corner. There was a large table in the conference room—oak by the look of it. The walls were painted white, and someone had draped the Burgundy Association flag across the wall. Other than that, the room was plain, which made sense given that members often had to move from building to building often to make sure their presence never drew attention. Even the flag could be taken down and folded at a moment’s notice. The fact that it hung so prominently on the wall meant that the members knew they would not be disturbed.

The camera panned from the flag to the doorway of the cramped room. A long white hallway stretched into the distance. All I could see down the empty corridor were a water fountain and some bathroom signs. It reminded me of the back hallways of the club, only more clean and pleasant. Then, three men turned a corner. There were just fuzzy dots at the far side of the hall. But as they walked forward, I recognized them at once. Lars was in the middle, a tall man, wearing desert fatigues. His blond hair blazed on his head. His skin was the pale color of the northern European. In another life, he would have made a fine looking NAZI Colonel. As it was, he had to settle for being an Association Major Commando. And he looked the part. With supreme confidence he strode down the hallway. I thought for a moment of the strong Marine Lieutenant, now in the back rooms somewhere laying castrated on a cot (probably next to his castrated private.) Lars was much older than he was, but the image of a professional military man brought back a lot of memories of the last half-hour. The wet spot in my pants was just starting to dry.

On either side stood other men in desert warfare fatigues. I didn’t know their names, but recognized them as Lars’ top two subordinates in the Mid East region. As they got closer to the doorway, Lars acknowledged the camera with a sharp military nod. He had been told, no doubt, that he needed a videoconference with Nikos, his patron. I noted the sharpness of his nose and the steal of his eyes. Despite the differences in skin tone and hair color, he was obviously his son’s father. I thought of the young man with the olive skin and the massive dick that had just fucked his first woman. God, his father would have been so proud of him—under other circumstances of course.

When Lars made it to the doorway, he stopped. The cameraman shifted to the right to keep the shot as the men entered the room. Lars’ eyes blazed fiercely at this ungraceful delay. No doubt the long walk down the hallway had been his idea to convey strength to Nikos. The clumsy cameraman had ruined the presentation, he must have thought. But the cameraman was a professional. He did exactly what he was supposed to do. As the camera swung sideways for Lars to enter, his two Lieutenants grabbed his arms, one on either side. Lars was a strong man, trained in deadly combat. But he wasn’t expected this. The two men jerked him into the room, pinning his stomach to the edge of the conference table. His large arms were twisted backwards unnaturally. The camera shook violently as the operator struggled to maintain the shot in the cramped room. I saw Lars plant his feet apart, getting in position to turn on his attackers. He grunted and bellowed as his muscles strained and his body twisted. One of his Lieutenants grabbed his side arm and tossed it across the room.

I know a little about hand to hand combat myself, as all Association members do. And I could tell by the placement of his feet and the angle of his shoulders that Lars was about to make a final push to break free. But he never got the chance. At that moment a third officer, probably in his mid twenties, rushed into the room. He grabbed his commander’s legs, and the three men together practically picked the big man up and threw him hard onto the table. The wooden table cracked under the force of the impact, but it didn’t break. Lars’ head slammed into the hard wood, and he was knocked silly for a moment. That was the opening for the three officers to end the struggle. The grabbed the Colonel’s polished boots and pulled him from the table. His ass and his back slammed into the floor. And the back of his skull smacked into the table end with a CRACK. Lars managed a weak: “Wait.” But the soldiers knew that, once began, their action couldn’t be stopped. The two chief Lieutenants grabbed their commander under his arms and pulled him up. They slammed his lower back against the edge of the table. Each holding one of his arms twisted and immobile, they pulled his upper body and weight back. At the same time, the younger officer grabbed the Colonel’s feet and legs, holding them steady, keeping him from toppling onto the table from the force of the men pulling his arms. And he was pinned. They had him; there was nothing Lars could do to twist away from the grip. But they also couldn’t move him without risking a deadly move from their commander.

But, they wouldn’t have to move him. Lars’ eyes wend wide with astonishment as he stared at the camera. The dull confusion from the blows to his head melted away as he realized the gravity of the situation. It was only when the camera panned right did we club goers see what Lars saw. A dark shape strode into the room. He wore a fine suit that was as much a uniform to him as the fatigues were to those commandos. He was a chief herder, an enforcer. He was one of the female herder’s bosses. He wore dark sunglasses on a strong hard face. His chin was as square as a corner stone. And his expression betrayed no mercy.

Lars struggled to move his shoulders. The veins and muscles stood out on his thick neck that was blushing pink with rage. Suddenly, Lars felt the enforcer’s hand on his jaw. He tried to slam his chin into his chest, to smash the large hand between his bony chin and the muscles of his chest. But one of his Lieutenants grabbed his hair from behind. The enforcer forced a white cloth gag into his mouth. The enforcer then raised a black mask to the camera, the red sun emblem blazing on the front. He pulled it over Lars’ pink face. As his white eyes reappeared in the eyeholes of the mask, they now wide with terror as well as rage. I thought for a moment how strange it was—since the father and son looked so different in complexion—that now their facial features were made identical by the black mask of a traitor.

The enforcer wasted no time. (The club was on a schedule after all.) The two subordinates held their commander fast to the table and the younger officer kept a firm grip on the two powerful legs. The enforcer produced a large bowie knife. He considered the blade for a moment. The grunts and muffled curses of Lars filled the small room, producing a slight echo from the club’s speakers. After a moment, the enforcer reached down and grasped the thick leather belt of Lars’ pants and cut it through with the knife. Lars kicked his legs as much as he could, but with all his weight pressing his back against the hard table, his struggles weren’t very effective. The enforcer quickly lowered Lars’ pants to his ankles. The camera zoomed in on the Colonel’s exposed manhood. His pasty-white organs flopped between his straining legs as he struggled. His body couldn’t move very much, but the force of his attempts sent his loose and heavy dangling manhood dancing between his muscled legs. His blond pubic bush was broad and thick. His uncircumcised organ was pale as a ghost, the ridge of his pink helmet visible under the thick pasty flesh of his foreskin hood. His organ was average, I would say—no where near as impressive as his son’s natural masculinity. I wondered for a moment where his son had gotten his endowment, because it obviously wasn’t from his father. His mother’s father must have been one well-hung of a man.

Lars jutted his head forward in another futile attempt to turn the tables on his attackers. I could the whites of his eyes staring out from the black mask as he struggled—or perhaps they were trying now to plead with the ruthless enforcer. But if there was ever any doubt in his mind about what his fate would be, the enforcer quickly ended it.

“See here, Colonel, stop your struggling. You only have yourself to blame for all this anyway. It’s not very seemly for a man in Association uniform to bellow and grunt like a bull calf. Take it like a man. You had best be a good example to your boy. He’s watching back home in the Valley right now. How will he know how to behave as his own nuts are cut off if you aren’t a good role model?”

The entire club erupted in cheers and laughter. Nikos’s eye’s squinted as he belly laughed at the situation. Lars was such a strong man. And the two that held him fast to the table, sealing his fate, had been his subordinates all his life. Now, they were helping the enforcer end their commander’s manhood—most likely in an attempt to save their own.

“MMMMMMMMMMRAAA, MMMGGGRAaaa!” Lars raged into his gag. His own son? Castrated for his failure! He knew that such a thing was theoretically possible, but it had rarely been done. For the strong military man, it must have been the world turned upside down. He looked so strange, held down, his pants around his ankles, his legs and crotch exposed while his shirt was still on and his face covered in the mask. It made him seem so—violated.

The enforcer moved with deliberate speed and efficiency. There were none of the slow, special touches we have come to expect at the club. This was a Field Castration—something to be done quickly and quietly. Not an occasion to wallow in the poor bull’s misfortune. The enforcer removed his dark jacket and tossed it on one of the conference table seats. I could see the silver gelding gun stuffed in the back of his waist. His crisp white shirt was gathered and wrinkled by the merciless steal of the gun. He reached behind and pulled the instrument of castration free. He waved it a few times in front of the doomed Colonel’s wide white eyes. The colonel had no doubt seen such a gelding gun in the past. It was the same type the herders used to gather young bulls from the herds abroad and bring them to the valley to become our pussy steers. The Colonel had no doubt used it as an instrument of discipline with one or two of his junior officers over the years. Like every other male, he had probably never thought about the possibility that it would ever be used on him.

The Colonel screamed and drooled into his gag, making the black fabric of the traitor’s mask turn darker around the corners of his mouth. With one hand, the enforcer pulled the Colonel’s soft sausage out of the, over toward to bull’s left thigh. The big bull shuttered at his touch—no doubt the first time a masculine hand other than his own had handled his private organ. As the enforcer held it, I felt a strange ironic feeling. That soft tub of flesh in the enforcer’s hand had at one time—many times—grown hard, fucked the soft inside of a woman, spasmed and shoot virile seed deep into her, and had produced his son. Now it was limp with fear and held by the man who would emasculate him. The Colonel’s balls hung there under his body, a ring of long, crinkled blond hairs surrounding the neck of his sac. His bag was plump and pink, with the extra hang that a bull’s manhood achieves when he nears middle age. I could see that his sac was sweaty from the struggles with his men and the fear of the enforcer. The Enforcer dropped his shriveled penis and ringed his index finger and thumb around the neck of the Colonel’s loose bag. He swung his other hand around, pointing the castration gun at the sensitive skin of the bull’s sack, just below where his fingers held his organs immobile.

“Aannnnnggguuu!” the strong man bellowed.

The two officers and the young soldier were having a hell of a time holding the big man steady. I watched their arms and their back—and their butt and strong legs covered by their military fatigues as they held their commander for his emasculation. They were such strong men—all four. But soon, the Colonel would not be like his men; he would be a gelded nothing.

And he knew it. “NNNoooooggggghhhhhh,” he cried. His eyes squinted as he strained. All the strength of his muscles and the training of his body in lethal fighting were useless. There was nothing he could do to save his balls, nothing he could do to keep his manhood. It was going to be taken. He was as helpless as a baby.

I expected the enforcer to say something, anything. Something clever or menacing. I expected him to toy with the Colonel just a bit before it happened. But he didn’t. There was just the sound of the “clunk-click!” And the military man’s anatomy was changed forever.

The Colonel’s eyes shot open, wide and white against the black mask. The device did its work with merciless speed and finality. “Nnnnnuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh, nuuuuhhhhhhhhh,” the bull roared into his gag. The veins of his neck, pink with the rush of struggle and fear, stood out and strained as the pain of his emasculation washed over his wrecked body. The enforcer nodded solemnly at his work. A quarter inch band of shiny black metal ringed the neck of the bull’s ball bag with an impossible tightness. I always marveled that the small ring of metal could compress so much fluffy soft flesh, the cords and the muscles that held them, so completely and finally. The big Colonel bucked and twisted against the grasping hands of his own soldiers. And he screamed into his gag a cry of unintelligible horror and agony. He only had the pain now, welling up from the loins that had provided so much pleasure to him in his life and had produced the son he was so proud of. The Colonel’s body was racked by spasms as he became a steer in an instant.

But the enforcer still had work to do. And the soldiers were beginning to tire.

The impossible constriction of the neck of the bull’s scrotum made his orbs underneath appear all the bigger and more plump. His sack turned from healthy pink to deep crimson in an instant. But, of course, it didn’t matter now. The cords that had carried his seed, the muscles that had raised and lowered his orbs to keep them healthy, the veins that nourished his vulnerable but mighty manhood were gone, smashed, crushed by the merciless metal tab. Everything below the cold black ring was as good as dead. Although it was still red and warm to the touch, it would soon be black and cold. From his coat pocket, the enforcers pulled the piece of wire pre-cut for the job. The Colonel’s eyes squinted watery tears into the black cotton of his mask. He didn’t see the enforcer twist the wire into a loop around his screaming sack with a work-a-day ease.

A tug was all it took, and Lars’s baby makers—the orbs that had been with him all his life and made him a man, the sack of ovals that had produced his lust and his seed, the twin nuts that had made his strong son—they dropped form his body forever. His pink bag of balls dropped, falling onto the head of the young soldier who held his commander’s legs. The thud of the soft but heavy bag took the young man by surprise and he jerked his head away. With a soft thud the manhood of the poor Colonel fell into the pants his military fatigues gathered around his ankles. The gelded Colonel’s hands and arms and legs just shuttered and twitched.

“Nnnnnnnhhhhhh,” was all the sound he made as his manhood was destroyed.

The enforcer paused for a moment, then reached again into his jacket pocket. “Flip him,” he ordered the soldiers.

With a practiced heave, the three men twisted the limp body of their commander around and leaned his chest on the cracked table. His arms hung over the edge of the table, his head lying on its side. The black fabric of his mask was wet with drool and tears. The gelded bull’s naked ass stuck up and his legs lay limp and twitching behind. The sack of his balls, now nothing but worthless flesh, had fallen from his pants and now rested on the carpeted floor. The soldiers held his arms gently now. And the young officer no long held his feet. There wasn’t much need. The fight had gone out of the steer.

The enforcer produced a needle from his coat and pulled the plastic protector from the tip. The other 3 soldiers took a step back on instinct when they saw the naked needle. They knew what it was, what it would do to a man. With a quick jab of the needle in the gelded bull’s rump, the enforcer ended his manhood forever. Not even hormones would help him be a man now. His masculinity was ended.

All stood in the room, watching the twitching and groaning steer twitch and shack. The three subordinates seemed shocked, as if they could hardly believe what they had just done, what they had just witnessed. The youngest officer absently scratched the top of his shaved head, as if to wipe away the feeling of his commander’s balls thudding against his scull. I wondered if that thud, the sound of a man’s gelded testicles hitting the top of his head, would stay with him forever.

The enforcer just turned and walked out. And the large screen slowly faded to black.

Only then did I realize how quiet the club had gotten. Everyone had hooted and yelled for the Colonel’s gelding. But as it happened, and now that it was done, everything was quite. I guess it was out of respect. After all, the Colonel had been one of us, a member of the Association—if a junior member. Perhaps the scene had hit a little too close to home.

It was a few moments before anyone spoke again. Then the Announcer spoke deeply and slowly. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have witnessed the full and proper punishment of one who failed our Association. In accordance with our laws and the agreement of the council, the steer will be given over to his commander, so do with as he pleases.”

I knew what that would mean. Lars was to be made into a pussy steer for Nikos’s use. My head shook slightly at the injustice. I didn’t feel sorry for Lars. He deserved to be punished. But it seemed strange to reward Nikos with a new pussy steer when he had a measure of responsibility in the failure as well. The crowd, however, did not share my mixed feelings. When they heard Lars sentenced to almost certain penectomy and a life as a pussy steer, a cheer rang out in the dark room.

The lights blazed into life again. “And now,” the announcer boomed. “What you have been waiting for, our last young bull of the evening, the son of traitor responsible for a great defeat: KRISTER!

The four large screens began to rise. The lights whirled and swirled in the smoke-choked air of the club. And when the screens lifted from view, the stage was ablaze with light, and the bull was there, hanging naked on the twin poles. In the darkness of the club, no one had seen them sneak onto the stage. Or perhaps there was a trap door under the stage. However it happened, it was as if the young bull and his herder escorts just simply appeared on the stage ready for the event.

The young bull’s olive skin beaded with sweat and glistened in the light of the stage. Some of that sweat might have been his sex sweat from when he lost his virginity only moments before—on camera for all to see. Some was undoubtedly from the heat of the lights and the fear of his fate.

“He has just seen his father gelded,” the announcer said. “Live, just moments ago, just as you witnessed it. His father is now a gelded steer. But he, the son, is still a man. Will he stay that way? Our VIPs as always have the choice.”

The olive skinned Bull’s eyes darted around the gloomy room. The whites of those terrified eyes stood out starkly against the black mask. My mind went immediately to Lars, the strong bull stud that had produced such a fine stud. Even now, he was laying in the agony of emasculation. The bull on the stage still had his manhood, still had the normal feeling of weight and substance between his legs. Lars only had empty, impotent pain. My god, I already decided how I would vote.

The final gelding cables were already hooked to the stud’s freshly non-virgin balls. I could see the bulging of his sack on either side of his low hanging sausage. My god, what an organ! The olive skinned youth was truly a young BULL. His organ hung down between his legs from his thick forest of black sex hair. It hung 5” down his thigh, suspended between his mighty muscled legs, like the third leg of this masculine tripod. And it was not only long, but also thick, thick like a soft uncooked German sausage. The thick, olive-shaded foreskin clung snuggly to the plump wide helmet of his soft bratwurst. The ridged outline of his sensitive male mushroom was clear through the soft skin hood. I could only image the feeling of power the young bull must get just by feeling that meat muscle hanging under his body like a man-tail. The feeling of strength and prowess to feel it compressed and packaged within his underwear and pants. The knowledge that males that were older, wiser, richer would envy the manhood with which nature endowed him. Not to mention the pleasure it could give any woman.

My memory raced back to the scene moments before, when this 18-year-old tanned bull had forcibly lost his virginity with the beautiful herder. That meat between his legs still had the juices and smells of a woman’s pussy clinging to it. It still had the residue of his own virile seed that his balls had made and his masculine muscles deep in his groin had pumped from his throbbing tool.

The bull’s hairless muscled chest heaved with his panicked breath. His chiseled washboard stomach glistened with sweat, which trickled and beaded among this black sex hair. The muscles of his neck strained as he tried to twist on the twin poles. But he could get no leverage. He was such a stud, so much more of a man than his father Lars had been. How was it possible for an average male like Lars to produce this stud? It is a question I asked myself that night.

And as I pondered it, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. The crowd was roaring, hooting at the appearance of our last young bull. But a black suited bouncer had somehow managed to work his way next to my seat without me realizing it. He wore dark sunglasses and the type of pressed suit you would see at the fanciest wedding. For an instant, my mind went back to the Enforcer who had emasculated Lars. And my spine chilled. But then the big man simply produced a note and handed it to me. Without a word, he slipped back into the darkness and noise of the crowd.

The herder who shared the stage with the olive-skinned bull now began her performance, prancing and teasing the young stud. I saw her tug his fat hanging organ with her finger, causing it to swing like a heavy pendulum. My own eagerness and fascination with this stud demanded that I keep looking, taking in all the detail. But the note was strange. I had never received one as a VIP. I looked down and opened it, using a small key chain light to read it in the darkness.

Dear sir,

The ruling council of the Association has taken a special interest in this case.

By pre-arrange agreement, the final decision on the gelding of his bull has been reserved for

Nikos and Garson.

Your gelding wire has been disabled.

In appreciation for your corporation in this matter, your previous purchase of the steer this evening will be paid at Association expense.

That was it. No signature. No further explanation. And it was not as if I needed any explanation. It was Nikos’s doing of course. He wanted to boy, just as he had been granted the father. Perhaps he dreamed of deflowering their new pussies, he on the father and his son Boden inside the son. Perhaps it was just his way of making up for the Mid east disaster. To save face and secure his position by dealing with the father who failed him and the son who would carry on his legacy. Whatever his reason, the strings he must have pulled had to go all the way to the top, the ruling council. It was an impressive show of power. Through the gloom and smoke, I saw another bouncer step away from Havous’s table on the other side of the stage. He no doubt had gotten the same message.

I looked over to Garson. The old man was looking up at the stage with cold, stern eyes. As the herder teased the helpless young bull, Garson sipped his mineral water from a crystal glass. He must be in on it to some extent. Perhaps that explained his statements to young Boden in the lounge earlier. He was certainly taking the fate of this young bull seriously. But what was his play? Surely he wasn’t in league with Nikos. Would he deny the beast his prize by refusing to pull his gelding cable?

I glanced at Nikos and watched his smiling face revel in the terrified young bull’s plight. This man who had been a friend of Lars, had promoted him up the ranks, and then denied him his manhood and would—one day soon—deflower his virgin pussy, now he would do the same to the son.

I looked down at the paper and read it again. Disappointment flooded into my mind. Sure, getting the mature American steer for free certainly helped my financial situation, since I really spent too much on him to begin with in y attempt to prevent Nikos for bedding him. But now I wouldn’t get a chance to pull my gelding cable on the olive-skinned bull stud. Everyone in the club was enjoying themselves so much. The roar of their excited conversations and hoots of approval at the stage swirled around me. But I suddenly didn’t seem a part of them. And I was the fucking VIP!

I glanced up at the plasma screen over the stage. The cameras were swinging around the crowd, going from smiling face to smiling face. Everyone was having a good time, looking up at the stage with eager anticipation. I wished so much I could be one of them. And then I saw his face, up on the screen, out in the crowd, smiling, beaming with youthful excitement. Boden! There he was, shouting with the crowd, his eyes bright and wild, his fist pumping. He was still wearing the expensive suit from the VIP room. I guess he hadn’t obeyed his father’s orders to return to the family compound. Curiosity must have gotten the better of him. The only 18-year-olds allowed in the club are usually the young bulls on the stage. But, like his father, that particular young bull seemed above the rules. The camera only focused on him for a moment. But I think Nikos saw him there on the screen too, because his smile beamed all the brighter. My guess as to his intention with Lars and his son was thus fortified.

I wondered what young Boden thought of the events on stage. The Olive-skinned bull being teased before his demise was so much like him. They had been friends, playing together and learning together before puberty had turned them into rivals. Those at the top never particularly trust those below them, and vise versa. I thought of Boden’s attitude towards the young Marine steer. How he had belittled his phallus and arrogantly stuffed the castrated bag of balls into their former owner’s mouth. I couldn’t image Lars’s son doing that. But, still they were so similar. The same olive skin of those born in the Valley. The same youthful fitness and strength. The same spirit of pride and rebellion of an 18-year-old human bull. I even remembered Boden’s sizable bulge in his expensive pants from the lounge. I wondered if the bull on the stage was hung better than he was. Would that change his view of steers, knowing that this one had put his own manhood to shame before he was un-manned? I doubted it. Still, they were just so similar, those too. But one would lose his balls tonight—the one on stage, while the other stood in the crowd and cheered it on. One would grow to be a man while the other would have a pussy between his legs, wet and dripping form the seed of other horny men.

As I thought of all these things, my attention turned once more to the stage and the climax of the evening. The herder was doing her job as good as Saska had done with the last bull. She flirted and flitted. She particularly liked to tease his young penis, his freshly non-virgin meat. His organ was partially erect under her attention. I saw that it no longer hung straight done, loose and heavy. It now jutted at an angle, half to the floor, half straight out. Its hooded eye was pointed right at me as I sat at my table. Underneath, his meaty balls with their tanned bag and black hairs were so ripe and plump. The metal rings encircled them, with the four gelding cables flowing out from each. I know only two of them were active, but it would only take two to unman this stallion.

The herder circled him like a shark in bloody water. Her hands grazed the hard lines of his form, the broadness of his shoulders and the shapes of his straining muscles. She teased his small man-nipples, making them stand firm and erect. This young bull was no longer a virgin, and he had first hand memory of the warm wet feeling a woman can provide his most sensitive shaft. There was the fear in his eyes, the dark wet stain of drool on his black traitors mask, the cold sweat of fear on his smooth olive skin, but there was the involuntary response of lust radiating from his virile male organs. As I watched, the herder circled again and slapped both her hands against his lean bobble butt cheeks. She kneaded the stud’s toned behind, like a lover would as he humped his mighty shaft into her body from above. The mighty organ between his legs throbbed and stretched. Its oversized mushroom head pulsed under its protective hood. And like a floor blossom opening in the morning, the fleshy foreskin of his organ rolled back off the sensitive helmet, slowly at first, then popping past the flared rounded ridge. The stud tossed his head back, and I heard a groan from behind his gag and mask. The twin feeling of the herders hands on his ass and his tight hood massaging his ample knob as it rolled free and exposed his purple acorn to the warm air were too much for him. My god, what a virile creature, what an impressive specimen of a bull! His organ stood out stiff, hard, 7.5 inches of male meat, sensitive and aroused. The wideness of it, the ovalness of it. The head flared out and glistened in to spot lights. A bead of clear pre-cum dotted the lip-like sides of his piss-slit. It was the kind of organ that looks fake in photos. The kind of organ that every male wishes for. Well above average, impressive soft or hard, big enough to pleasure any woman with minimal effort, but not so big as to require special care. It was the kind of organ that would force its bull owner to ask his lover if she is “OK” as he pumped it slowly into her. And what male does not want to have to ask that question? What strong young bull does not get a rush from the idea of him protecting his beautiful little woman from the rampant demands of his own impressive manhood? The strength and protective instincts of the human man—satisfied by his own endowment.

But these reactions for the young bull were involuntary, just automatic responses of a horny 18-year-old to a beautiful woman rubbing against his mature but inexperienced body. Under it all, under the groan of frustrated pleasure and the rigid readiness of his fat cock, there was the knowledge and the fear of what was probably about to happen to him—to his body—to his manhood.

The herder walked around him again. Pressing her thong covered ass against his pole, pushing it up to his stomach. It reached well past his belly button. And she smiled to the crowd. “What do you think?” she yelled out over the room. “Should I let him cum?”

The crowd roared their approval.

“Ok. You boys know what to do when,” she said as she stuck her finger in her mouth and pulled it free with a pop. Nikos threw his head back in a laugh and picked up the handle of his gelding cable. Garson just sat, stone faced, and ordered another drink.

The herder turned slowly, making sure her body never lost contact with the bull’s sweaty skin. And as she turned, she slowly lowered, squatting until her ample ass was spread for the crowd’s enjoyment. The bull’s awesome organ flopped with a noticeable twang as her body moved away. But her ass was soon replaced with her face. The pressed her cheek against the head of his monster, then breathed a long hot breath onto the sensitive tip. She gripped his beautiful organ at its base and guided it forward. His organ looked even more impressive next to this lithe little female. A full 4 inches stuck out beyond the edge of her gripping hand, and her fingers could not quite make it around his wide shaft. The young bull looked down, the white of his eyes blazing against his black mask. And he watched his plump purple mushroom disappear between her ruby lips. She pressed her head forward, taking the 4 inches of his dick into her mouth, letting her tongue slide down the sensitive underside of his pole like warm sandpaper. The young bull shuttered and shook. His hooded head lolled to one side, resting on his shoulder. The mask prevented me from seeing the twists and contortions of his face as his experienced his first and (possibly) his only blow job. But his grunts, though muffled into his gag, gave a window into the pleasure his strong, virile, helpless body was feeling.

The herder pulled her head backwards, forcing his organ to reverse its track across her tongue and through her lips. When his throbbing head popped clear, she pumped her hand on his shaft. The soft skin of his pole shifted against the hard inner core. The thick hood of his foreskin gathered behind his fat helmet, then popped past and folded over the tip it protected. When she pulled her fist backwards again, the skin reversed its course. No sooner had the skin unfolded from his head, the warmth of the hood was replaced with the warmth of her mouth. And the bobbing and stroking continued. One after the other, hand, hood, lips, tongue. His tingling and throbbing man-pole felt it all, over and over. He knew it would be over soon.

His head darted; his white eyes staring out into the dark room. He looked at each of the VIP tables, knowing that we controlled his fate. But he seemed to look toward Nikos the most, with eyes wild and pleading. Did he somehow know that that laughing man controlled his fate? Did he sense that Havous and I could not help him? That our empathy or mercy could not save his manhood? His looks to Garson did nothing to change the old man’s cold stare. It was to Nikos that he looked while the pretty young herder handled his manhood. Each lick, each stroke, each suck, each breath on his cock head brought him closer to the moment when his fate would be decided. His eyes showed that he knew it. “Mmmfffaaaarrrrrrr,” he groaned or pleaded from behind his mask. The rhythmic straining of his thigh and stomach muscles showed that his body was close.

The herder quickened her pass. Her jaw was strained over his meat, and she let one hand travel up and down his lower stomach and scratch into his pubic forest. The olive-skinned bull hung helpless on the twin crutches. His shoulders, broad with the newly formed musts of post adolescent manhood, poked up in sharp angles around his bobbing head. His eyes stared down at the herder, and the plasma screen showed us what he saw. From a camera angle in the ceiling, I watched—and saw as he saw—that massive pole of hard flesh, impossibly wide for her slurping feminine mouth, vanished and reappeared over and over into her head. Her eyes looked up at him, the strain of her pleasuring evident on her face. Even hanging helpless, his legs just barely touching the floor, the young bull had power. His cock had power—just as much power as the cut strong muscles of his broad chest. The masculine energy, the testosterone that his balls created and radiated to every cell of his bull body, the potency of his muscled frame and the force of his masculine will—they were all trapped helpless there on that stage. But the power of his tremendous cock, which his conscious will could only move with a bob or a throb, its very existence meant power. And the header, despite her skill and her training, was still overpowered by it. I don’t know if the young bull thought those things as I did. Fear and pleasure and terror and hope probably clouded his reason at that moment. But deep down, in his soul, he knew those facts to be true. It is why he was so afraid, why he struggled on the bars so hard, why his eyes betrayed his pleading terror. He knew that if his balls were taken, everything he saw as looked down and everything I described would be lost to him forever.

And then he looked up, looked right at me. His wide eyes, flashing white against the black of his mask, locked onto mine. The tiny lamp on the corner of my table illuminated my face with the shadowy atmosphere of the club. But I know that he saw me, that he looked right into my eyes at that moment and saw me, not a stranger. “Mmmmgmmgggghhhhhaaaaaa,” he screamed into his gag. I saw the muscled cords of his neck tense and press out into his skin. I saw his chest heave and his stomach muscles tense with impossible strength. His eyes blazed with the intensity of a man witnessing his own death. And I knew that, at that moment, in that ten seconds when his eyes met mine, that his inner body was ablaze and spasming with the consuming pleasure that all male creatures desire. At that moment, the muscles in his groin were tensing, forcing his virile seed to churn from his balls to his prostate. The tubes of his inner plumbing were massaged and pumped by the involuntary contractions of his inner manhood. The head of his massive organ was no doubt blazing like a noon sun as it shot each pleasurable sensation straight to the overwhelmed bull’s brain like a thousand bolts of lightning. And then, as quick as it began, the spasms crested, and the real contractions, the mighty convulsions at the root of his throbbing cock began to pump the baby-batter his hanging stones had produced.

The herder jerked her face away. She spit a spray of white sperm out onto his manhood as her head snapped back. She hadn’t been quick enough, or his ejaculation had been so strong she couldn’t escape it in time. And her hand still pumped the lower half of the bull’s convulsing pole. The thick folds of his foreskin enveloped and unraveled over his throbbing purple helmet head. The white globs of virile seed pumped with rhythmic precession from the bull’s laboring body. At the forth thick spurt, I saw the gelding cords vibrate. And even as the herder turned her face from the explosion of warm man goo, the plump, ripe basket that had made it dropped to the hard wood with a mighty THUMP.

“MMMMMMMMMMMMMM! GGggghhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMM!” The young bull’s olive skin went pale in the white lights of the stage. His eyes, squinting with the horrible twisting of his facial features under the mask, jerked away from my gaze. His head swung wildly as his scream was double muffled through the cotton of gag and mask. The crowd in the club roared with horny approval. Before the herder released the olive-skinned steer’s still hard rod, before the last of his final load leaked for the end of his de-balled penis, the announcer began the bidding.

“10,000,” Nikos cried.

“1,000,000,” Garson called in a voice strangely potent for such an old man.

Nikos jumped to his feet. The some was insane, outrageous. The roaring and laughing crowd silenced in waves as the realization of Garson’s bid hit them.

“HHUuuuuummmgggg, huuuummmggggggg,hhhhhhhhh,” the emasculated steer heaved and breathed and screamed into his gag like an impudent child deprived of his beloved toy. His head lulled down; his masked chin digging into his chest. The herder stood from her crouch and whipped a stream of white seed from her cheek.

Nikos’s face scowled with disbelieving anger. His eyes blazed at Garson, but he said nothing. What could he say? The announcer looked at him for 20 seconds, until the flash of anger turned to a squint of confusion. Garson would get the steer. “And the winner is GARSON,” the announcer boomed. Those words had never been heard in the club for as long as I had attended.

The old man sat in his chair and sipped his drink. Nikos’s sharp features flashed his rage at being denied his prize. But the old man was unfazed. He simply looked at the herder on the stage, right at her eyes, and nodded his head.

The herder reached over and gripped the top of the mask and pulled.

The black fabric pulled from the steer’s head. The tired and drained face of Boden jerked up with the pull of the fabric before bobbing back down to rest on his chest. It was the boy, the son! My god!

Nikos’s face went white. The intake of breath in the club was audible. The silence was complete. It was Boden. It was the young man. His strength and his stature, his face and his eyes—they were the same from the VIP room. Only his spirit was diminished; only his body was castrated.

Nikos’s fists clinched. And he bounded forward. Two bouncers who had heretofore blended into the crowd that always flanked Nikos’s chair grabbed him, holding him at the shoulders. They struggled and grasped at the strength of Nikos’s body. The man was strong, powerful, white hot with rage. And his eyes were fixed on Garson. The old man simply sat in his chair. He wasn’t even watching. And as Nikos jerked and struggled, pulling the big brawny bouncers this way and that as he surged forward an inch or two, his eyes left Garson. With no less rage he struggled, he pulled, he staggered. “Let me go to him, let me go to my son!” he screamed hoarsely as his strength finally gave way under the weight of the bouncers. When if final effort was exerted, the two big men lifted him backwards and gently let him drift back into his leather chair. The golden handle and black cable still lay there, loose and coiled where he had dropped it from his hand. I saw his eyes register that jeweled handle and then jerk away. It had been the instrument, the tool, with which he had deprived his eldest son of his masculinity forever. He buried his face into his large shaking hands.

My own gaze when from the ruined father to the completely ruined son. The steer hung there on the stage, his body glistening in sweat. The ragged hoarseness of his breath echoed in the club stunned into silence. The proud pecker between his legs was only half-hard now—halfway back to its forever-flaccid state. But it still looked so mighty so impressive. But I knew that the aura of impressiveness that its size naturally inspired was an illusion now. And the blinding waves of nauseating pain radiating from his emasculated groin pounded home the same fact for Boden. His body convulsed as if shocked with a tazor. But no one touched him now. He just hung, there on the stage, alone and unmanned. They had fooled everyone, the announcer, the club, Garson, the Association. Even the image of Boden on the plasma screen, doubtless filmed earlier in the night, when the young American marine was castrated perhaps, had misdirected any who would suspect. But they hadn’t fooled Boden. From the moment he was lead onto that stage he knew his fate. And he tried to scream out against it. But the gag, which still stuffed his mouth, muffled all. That gag was now wet with spit and sweat. And it still did its job. Only the low whimper of denial escaped from his quivering jaw.

My own shock was total.

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen,” the subdued announcer said to the crowd. “The herd is now thinned, four less than we began the night with. The one who escaped will soon be home. The four who were cut from the herd and chosen for a different fate, they will go to their new owners. To do with as they please. And you all, you will go home tonight to the comfort of your homes. But, please, remember what you have seen, remember these bulls who were so strong, so virile, so potent. Remember what they were. Because they will never be that again. Good night.”

And the final part to come…..