Dad worked full time and Mom stayed home with my baby sister, and anytime I was around the house I had to abide by her rules. She determined that neat things like knives or rope were too dangerous for a young boy to play with so I started taking refuge in the barn.

The barn was really just a shed that was only large enough to hold the two or three tons of hay that Dad purchased every fall to feed a few beef cattle during the winter. There was an old saddle and horse blanket along one wall, a huge bundle of the heavy twine removed from the hay bales, and during the summer a half dozen or so bales of hay left over from the last winter. Mom was allergic to hay and she never came around the barn, so it was a perfect place for me to hide out and play and do fun things like throwing a knife, building forts from the hay bales to defend the homestead against prowling Indians or invading Japs or whatever, and also practicing my Tarzan swings from long pieces of baler twine that I’d laced together and tied to the rafters.

About the time I turned thirteen I discovered an important new activity for the barn. My sister was four or five then and fascinated by everything her big brother did and was intent on snooping on his every activity, my bedroom door could not be locked, and Mom got paranoid if I spent more than five minutes in the bathroom. The Barn was perfect; I could spread out the old horse blanket or a burlap bag on the hay and do as I pleased without fear of interruption or discovery, the straw on the floor would easily absorb gallons of adolescent product, the musky odor of lust was completely obliterated by the sweet scent of the hay, and the bales could be stacked in many different configurations. I quickly discovered that I could masturbate in just about any position, including face down sprawled across two bales, and during the course of the summer I think I jacked off in just about every conceivable contortion and produced enough sperm to impregnate half of the world’s female population. Kenny Wilson and I did it together a few times, and although we never touched each other, just watching another guy do it too added a new dimension to my favorite sport.

Kenny’s dad, like mine, had fought in WWII and Kenny was fascinated with the stories his dad had told him. “Did you ever think about what it would be like to be hung the German way?” Kenny asked as he stroked his cock.

“How’s that?” My dad fought in the Pacific and his enemy had been the Japanese.

“They’d take a guy and tie a rope around his bag and hang him by his balls,” Kenny explained, reaching down with his free hand to fondle his nuts. “Sometimes they’d stretch clear down to their knees afterwards, Dad said.” Kenny’s dad always spoke only the absolute unvarnished truth, according to Kenny. I grabbed my own balls and pulled gently on them, trying to imagine hanging by them. That pushed me over the edge and I abruptly stood up and clamed down hard enough on my cock to shoot a thick rope of semen at least six feet.

“Beat that,” I challenged, and slumped back down onto the hay bale, totally spent.

A few days later I thought about what Kenny had said and tried tying a length of baler twine around my bag. The coarse sisal and dug painfully into the tender skin of my scrotum, so I stripped a lace from my tennis shoe and used that instead, tugging my balls upward from my body as I pumped my cock, imagining being hung that way. The effect was immediate and I came far sooner than I normally did. I used the shoelace a few more times before finding a soft piece of clothesline that worked even better. I’d throw it over the rafter and pull the slack out of the line then jack off, all the while imagining that I was being tortured for information about the Allied invasion.

September finally arrived, school started, and the barn was filled with hay for the impending winter, leaving only a narrow aisle along the side that opened to access the mangers where the cattle would feed. That didn’t stop me, though. I would climb to the flat surface on top of the bales, spread out the horse blanket, drop my pants, and flog away just like I always had, only now I was eight feet off of the floor.

The rafter that anchored my Tarzan swing and the beloved piece of clothesline was only about five feet above the hay now, so I invented a couple of new positions. One Saturday I doubled the clothesline and tied both ends around my balls, experimenting with the length until I finally had so little slack that I had to arch my back off of the hay to lie down. My latest novelty included clamping my cock in both hands and planting my elbows on the hay and jerking my hips up and down to provide the action, stretching my nuts out to the limit on the downward stroke. It produced the ultimate orgasm; so intense that I was breathless and nearly blacked out afterwards, and although the abuse to my balls left a dull pain in my belly I could hardly wait for an opportunity to do it again.

Mom and Dad always did the week’s grocery shopping on Saturday and my little sister always went with them, and I had the option of going along or staying home and the next Saturday I was once again in the barn on top of the hay. I had resolved to save up my sperm all week, but had weakened by Tuesday and jacked off so by now I was only packing a four-day load. I laid out the blanket, stripped down nude, and rigged the clothesline just as I’d done the previous week.

I eased down on the hay, grabbed my cock, planted my elbows and stared jacking my hips up and down. I picked up the tempo as I got harder and soon the whole pile of hay bales was shaking with the rhythm. I was right on the edge of climax and stopped for the impending orgasm, but the pile of bales kept right on shaking and started tumbling into the aisle as the stack came apart. I dropped my cock and grabbed for the clothesline, but couldn’t get a grip on the thin line and in an instant I was hanging by my balls, head down, still desperately clutching the line. I felt like my whole life was flowing out of my belly and in less than a minute I passed out from the blinding pain.

I came to sometime later and tried once again to pull myself up to the rafter, but was far too weak to do anything but scream hoarsely until I passed out again. Mom and Dad must have made it home because the next thing I remember was Dad holding my up while frantically trying to open his pocket knife with his teeth.

They rushed me to the hospital but the trauma to the connective tissue and the loss of circulation caused by the tightening of the slipknot doomed my testicles and the only thing the doctor could do was to complete what I’d already started, and when they discharged me a week later I was a thirteen year old eunuch.

Oh yeah, one other thing: Kenny Thompson had exaggerated; my balls only came halfway to my knees.