Terry - part 16

If I hadn't been afraid that Snyder might eventually either kill Terry or cut off his balls, I would have almost been looking forward to his arrival.  I was mad at Terry-not for the rape.  I had wanted that; but for saying that I was just a pussy to him-just a hole to fuck.  I wanted Snyder to make him suck my cock again-but wondered if Snyder would be able to force him to do it again.  Terry knew, now,  that I'd come in his mouth.  I had twice already.

Maybe he didn't hate it as much as he claimed?  He said he wasn't queer, but Snyder said that as well-and Snyder only fucked boys.  I'm certain Terry would have never experienced a homosexual relationship had he not been sent to the Walls, but, here he: had been fucked by Snyder; had sucked my cock; had let me suck his cock; and had fucked me.  Sex with girls was yesterday.  Sex with guys was today and tomorrow-all his tomorrows for the next six years. 

Seventeen now, we had been sixteen when we had come  to the Walls.  We were young enough for this experience to mold the rest of our lives.  One remembers best that which is tied to strong emotions.  Sometimes, I couldn't remember not being at the Walls.  I remembered home-everything before the Walls-as if it had been a movie I'd once seen.  Although I remembered it-it was as if it weren't real-as if it had happened to someone else.  Only the Walls was real.  I didn't know how it could be otherwise for Terry.

Rodgers came for us after lunch.  He asked who had removed our shackles, thinking that it might have been Snyder, but I told him that it had been the breakfast guard.  "Meddling asshole," Rodgers said as he replaced them.

We had a shower, then were taken to the recreation yard.  Terry, again, went for the weights.  Observing the intensity of his workout, I had the impression that he'd decided to become strong enough that he wouldn't be an easy victim.  In prison, the weak are always victims.  Skinny, with few muscles, I was weak.  Lifting weights would have done me little good.  I spotted for Terry when he told me.  It was the only time he talked to me.  Never asking, he ordered me to do what he wanted, as if I had no choice-as if I were his servant.  Although I struggled at times, I never dropped any of the weights.  After he was through, I was exhausted, even though I had just held some of the weights.

Terry's naked body glistened with sweat.  The muscles of his arms and chest, expanded by his exertion, bulged, each individually perceptible.  The cords in his neck stood out.  Since being in prison, he had lost any fat he might have once had.  Now, there was just muscle.  The sight aroused me-and being naked, there was no hiding it.  "Motherfucker," said Terry.  "I'm sick of your getting a hard-on every time you look at me."

He kicked me in the balls.  I immediately lost my erection.  "That's better," he said.  "At least Harris, fag that he was, never got a hard-on every time he looked at me.  You need to get rid of your balls so you don't."

Lying on the ground, I was moaning, tears running down my cheeks, as much from surprise-the unexpected brutality of his attack-as from pain.  In two days, our relationship had irrevocably changed.  Before I had come in his mouth, he had called me friend-but no longer.  The ties that bound us hadn't been severed; despite this change, I still loved him; I had for too long, to stop loving him now.  He needed me, too, I thought-if for no other reason, than to have someone to dominate, as Snyder dominated him.  No longer his friend, I had become his punk-but, for me, that was possibly enough.  I wanted his love, but I would accept whatever he would give-even his scorn.

By the time the guards came for us, I had recovered and wiped away my tears.  Rodgers left us naked and shackled in our cell to wait for Snyder.  Figuring that Terry didn't want me to sit on his bed, I climbed up onto my bunk, lying down on the bare mattress.  After a while, Terry said, "I'm not sucking your cock again.  I don't care what Snyder does-I'm not doing it again."

I wanted to caution him not to antagonize Snyder.  I was afraid for Terry-afraid for what Snyder might do to him.  Angered, Snyder might cut off his balls-or even kill him; but the definitive nature of Terry's words prevented me from replying.

Snyder came; we lay on the floor as ordered; we had no choice; he would have beat us into submission, if we hadn't.  Locking me to the bedpost, Snyder raped Terry again.  Despite the pounding of his prostate by Snyder's cock, Terry didn't get an erection.  The hate, evident on his face, must have prevented it.

Once Snyder was though, apparently relishing Terry's further degradation, he ordered him to suck my cock.  "No," said Terry.  "I won't."

Pulling out his knife again, Snyder grabbed Terry's balls, saying, "You'll lose your balls, if you don't."

"You'll have to cut them off, then.  I'm not sucking anyone's cock."

Red in the face, apparently enraged at Terry's refusal, I thought for a moment he would cut off Terry's balls, but turning loose of Terry, he stepped back.  "No, I think you would let me cut off your balls before sucking a cock-but your refusal is going to cost someone his balls.  Either you cut off his balls," he said, inclining his head toward me, "or I'll cut off yours-your choice."

"Then I get more time for attacking him?"

"No, we'll both say that he did it to himself."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I like how things are.  I don't want to have you sent somewhere else."

I was shocked at the conversation they were having.  It sounded like Terry was actually considering cutting off my balls.  He had said several time that I would be better off without them, but I had thought that his words had been vacuous-empty of any real intent; but, on some level the thought of having Terry cut off my balls excited me-frightened me, but aroused me, too.  My cock became stiff at the thought.

"See," said Snyder.  "He wants you to cut off his balls.  Look how hard he is.  He wants you to do it."

"Do you, Lyons?  Do you want me to cut off your balls?"

"No," I protested, but my cock throbbed at the thought.

"But, think about it, Jon.  You don't need them.  What do you need them for?  Now, that Harris is gone, there's no one for you to fuck; besides, you prefer to get fucked, don't you?  You like for me to fuck you, don't you?"

Apparently trying to convince me, Terry had called me, Jon.  He always called me, Lyons.  I couldn't remember when he had last used my first name.  I nodded my head in agreement, but, even in my own mind, I wasn't sure to which I was agreeing-to be castrated, or that I enjoyed being fucked by Terry.

"You'll be better off without them.  You won't get hard every time you look at me."

The last statement was Terry's reason for me to lose my balls-not mine.  I liked being aroused by him, but, being naked so much of the time, I couldn't hide it from him.  He got angry when it happened.  Maybe it would be better if I didn't have balls.  Maybe, then, Terry wouldn't be so pissed at me all the time.  Aroused by the prospect, I would also be saving his balls by sacrificing mine.  I had often said that I would give my life for him.  Weren't giving my balls much less than my life?

Terry wanted it, too.  I could see it on his face-and it wasn't just to keep from losing his balls.  He, too, was hard.  The prospect of either cutting off my balls-or the prospect of my not having balls-turned him on.  Perhaps, without balls, I would be more like a girl to him.  Perhaps, if I hadn't any balls, he could love me.

"But, it'll hurt," I said.

"I'll give you something," said Snyder.

"What?"

"Drugs.  Prisons are full of drugs.  Either you won't feel it when he cuts off your balls-or you won't care."

"See, Jon.  It won't be so bad.  It won't even hurt."

"What about the bleeding?  I might bleed to death."

"I'll get you to the infirmary-but you have to say that you did it to yourself."

"OK," I said, realizing that I had just agreed to be castrated.  Perhaps, it was for the best.  I had made love to Harris.  Even, without balls, he had enjoyed it.  "If I don't have any balls, will you fuck me from the front?"

I thought I saw a look of disgust pan across Terry's eyes, but he said, "Yeah, if that's what you want."

"Hey," said Snyder.  "This can't take all night.  Are you going to do it, or not?"

"OK," I said, feeling a moment of panic, "but, I want the drugs first.  I can't stand pain."

"I'll be back in a minute," said Snyder as he walked out the door.  I heard the sound of the lock clicking after the door shut.  In about ten minutes, he was back.  A hypodermic was in his hand.

"What's in it? I asked.

"Heroin.  You'll like it."

"It won't kill me, will it?"

"No, it's not a strong dose-just enough for a punk like you."  Coming over to me, he tied a piece of rubber tubing around my bicep, found a vein, and injected the contents into my arm.  Still shackled, Terry watched from the other side.

Almost immediately, it hit me-bliss, complete bliss.  For the first time, I understood.  Having seen pictures of drugged out junkies, I hadn't understood how they could do it to themselves.  Now, I did: that I was in the Walls, no longer mattered; that I was about to lose my balls, no longer mattered; all that mattered, was the bliss.  It was almost like sex-no, it was better than sex.  If I could feel like this, I wouldn't care whether Terry fucked me; I wouldn't care whether he loved me.  My eyes rolled back in my head, but, although I collapsed to the floor, I didn't pass out.  My legs, now made of rubber, would no longer support me.

Somewhere, as in a distance, I heard Terry saying, "Are you OK, Lyons?  How do you feel?"

Although I couldn't really feel my face, I think I grinned.  I heard someone answer, "It's great.  I love it."

"He'll be OK.  He won't feel a thing," said Snyder.  "Come over here."

I'm vague about what happened next, but, reconstructing the events from my memories of that night, and deducting what must have happened, I believe that Snyder removed Terry's restraints, except for the handcuffs, left the room, removed Terry's handcuffs through the panel, then handed him a knife.  He watched from the door.

Snyder had-at some time-removed my shackles.  I was no threat to him-or to anyone.  At that point I couldn't have formed the intent to make a fist, much less throw a punch.  I was lying on the floor, lost in the patterns that the light was making on the ceiling.  It was beautiful.

Walking to me, Terry knelt on the floor next to me.  Waving his hand in front of my face, he asked, "Can you hear me?"

Sometime afterward, I said, "Yeah, I hear you."  Time was so distorted for me that I couldn't be sure how much time had elapsed between his question and my answer.

"I'm going to cut your balls off, now-OK?"

"Sure.  Go ahead.  I don't care.  Cut the little motherfuckers off."

Raising my head, I looked in fascination, as he grabbed my balls.  "How do I do it?" he yelled at the door where Snyder was standing.

"Split the sack; grab hold of the balls; pull them, stretching the cords; then, cut the cords.  It's easy.  Nothing to it."

Placing the knife on the underside of my balls, Terry poked the knife through my scrotum so that the point of the knife came out close to my cock.  Then, with a quick motion, he split my sack from top to bottom.  The smack hadn't made my balls numb.  I felt him cut me-but I couldn't describe the feeling as pain, because pain is something to be avoided.  This was just another sensation-no better, or worse, than the others I was experiencing.  The drug prevented me from defining it as something bad.  High on smack, everything was good.  For the first time, in many months, everything had been put right.

Blood poured from my scrotum.  It was so red-so beautiful.  Reaching inside, Terry grabbed my balls, pulling them from their sheath.  "Wow, I said.  Are those really my balls."  Although Terry's hard cock told me he was still aroused, I thought he looked a little sick, too.  The drug, while dulling some perceptions, seemed to have heightened others-although it might have been my imagination.

"Yeah. Those are your balls."  Although covered with blood, they had a bluish tint to them.  "Are you ready?"

"Sure," I answered, nonchalantly.  "Cut those babies off."

I think that, if it hadn't been for the drug, I would have been aroused, but my cock hung limply beside my balls.  I felt a tug deep within my abdomen as he pulled my balls, stretching the cords.  Placing the knife against the cords to both set of balls, Terry hesitated, then with a flick of his wrist, cut through them.  My balls came away in his hand.  He stared for a moment, then dropped them onto the floor between my legs.  I had felt the same sensation I had when he had sliced open my scrotum, but more intensely this time.  Once again, however, I couldn't identify it as pain.  "Cool," I said.  "You cut them off.  You can love me now, can't you?  Now, that I don't have balls?"  I don't think I would have said that, if I hadn't been high, but, on the drug, I felt that I could have anything I wanted.

"For me to love you, you'll have to lose more than your balls.  You'll have to lose this, too," he said, as he picked up my limp cock.

"Cut it off, then." 

My cock?  I liked having a cock.  I had never agreed to having it cut off, too.  I had never wanted to be a girl.  Without balls, I had still thought that Harris was a boy.  A boy has a cock.  That, since my earliest memories, had been the defining characteristic of being a boy.  I had a cock.  My sisters hadn't.  In my mind, that had been the difference between us, not that I had balls and they didn't.  The balls had been secondary, ancillary to my cock. 

I had never particularly liked my balls.  They hung too low.  My cousin had once made fun of them, saying that they hung down like a bull's balls.  Although, I had often wished my cock was bigger, and not curved to the left, as it was when hard, it was my cock-the only one I'd ever had. 

I remembered the first time I had masturbated.  I was fourteen and had been having wet dreams, but, being naive, hadn't known how to masturbate, until one day in P.E., after hearing other boys talk about it, one boy, had climbed onto some parallel bars, had pretended that the bar he straddled was his cock, and had began moving his hands back and forth on the bar, from his crotch outward.  A light had gone off in my head.  As soon as I got home, going into the bathroom and locking the door, I had tried it on my cock.  Before long, jism had spurted from it.  It hadn't shot far, no more than an inch or two, but I had been awed by my ability to produce it. I had jacked off.  It had been a seminal day-one that, for however long I lived, I would never forget.  I felt sick, but that had been my imagination.  From what the boys at school had said, I had thought I should feel sick-or weak-afterward.  That feeling hadn't stopped me, though.  It was a long time before I went a day without beating off.  After that first time, it had always felt good.

Before the drug-for Terry-I had agreed to let him cut off my balls.  I don't think I would have-even for Terry-agreed to let him cut off my cock, but under the effects of the smack, it didn't matter.  I thought about how it would look when he sliced through it; I could imagine it, in his hand, separated from my crotch.  The smack made me want it-if for no other reason, than to witness the reality of the picture in my mind.  "If I let you cut it off, you'll love me, then?"

Terry began masturbating.  "Yeah, if you let me cut it off, I'll love you.  Tell me to cut it off.  Beg me to cut it off."

Watching in fascination as he pumped his cock, I said, "Please, Terry, cut it off."

"Beg me.  Say, 'Terry, Cut off my cock." He hadn't asked Snyder, but Snyder had heard everything.  He could have stopped it, had he wished.

"Please, Terry.  I beg you.  Cut off my cock."  At that moment, I was convinced that I wanted it-that I wanted to be rid of my cock.  I wanted it, because Terry wanted it.  I wanted to please him.

Terry continued to masturbate while I begged him to cut off my cock.  It no longer mattered that I watched, or that Snyder watched form the door.  Snyder and the Walls had stripped us of all dignity.  I watched him come, fascinated by the sight of spunk spurting from his cock.  I wished that he had come onto my face, or into my mouth, but, enthralled with the sight of his beating off, I hadn't thought to ask  It was the first time I'd ever seen him beat off.  It was the first time I'd ever seen another boy beat off..

After coming, Terry sat back for a moment with his eyes closed, then picked up the knife.  While I chanted, "Please cut off my cock," he grabbed it, slicing it off at the base, as close as possible to my groin, slicing into my empty scrotum as he did.  Standing up, he dropped the knife next to me-and stared at my penis which he held in his hand.  Then, as if suddenly realizing what he had done, he dropped it, ran to the toilet and threw up.

It had been much as I had imagined.  My cock, separating from my body, had come off in Terry's hand-only there was more blood than I had imagined.  Blood spurted from the gash from which my cock had once sprung.

"Fuck," I heard Snyder say.  "you cut it off.  You really cut off his cock."  Throwing some towels through the panel, he said.  "You better use these to slow the bleeding while I get help, or, he'll bleed to death.  Remember, he did this to himself.  Remember, Lyons, you did this to yourself."

"I did it to myself," I mumbled.  I remembered hearing the panel in the door shut, but I must drifted between levels of consciousness, because I can't remember anything after that.  Terry told me later that I kept repeating over and over, when they came for me, "I did it to myself."