The Bout

I had never encountered my adversary before the morning practice when each of us, in turn, had made excellent shots at the stationary targets while a large crowd watched. Each time his ball found its target, I winched, feeling sick to my stomach, my heart pounding. He was too good. That I was shooting just as well did nothing to settle my nerves. The bout, only a few hours away, would have had me sweating with even a lesser opponant who, after all, could get lucky. But now I felt like I was awaiting an execution. Trying not to, I glanced once more at...I didn’t know his name, and didn’t want to. His physical beauty didn’t help matters any, either. What a waste, to have to do everything I could to ruin so handsome a creature. But better him than me.

My turn. I stepped to the line and leveled my airgun, training on the target 25 yards away, banishing all other thought. A steady, relaxed upper body and a smooth, gentle squeeze of the trigger, along with correct judgement of wind with the right compensation for drift - Whoose!! - and with a hollow, resounding “thock” the ball (the size of a tennis ball but smoother and a bit heavier) finds the cup.

The spectators that morning must have numbered over two hundred. These were the serious followers of the sport, and most would place bets that afternoon. Naturally, they paid close attention to our long shots, but were equally intent on seeing how we move, trying to get a sense of how cool we’d be under pressure, to get a measure of our physical strength and stamina.

Around 10:30, Cedric Ralston showed up, as usual. Writing for the Tribune, Ralston was also the odds maker, regarded as one of the sport’s true experts, and many watched him for some sign of which one of us he favored. In vain. Talk about a cold fish, Ralston never betrayed the slightest thought or emotion. He seldom bothered to take in the stationary marksmanship phase of the warm up, but was keenly attentive to the action shots, where we’d shoot while running zig-zag patterns or wheeling around, ducking and firing. He would also look over our naked bodies with professional detachment. He seldom said a word to anyone other than to ask a handler over to hold out our dangling testicles for a closer look.

As my opponent was being inspected, I conducted my own evaluation. His body was lithe and boyish, with good muscle tone and no extra weight. I guessed his height at 5’8”. I hated to look at his face, which was not only pretty, but seemed to belong to a decent soul. Why did it have to be so? I didn’t want to hear his voice, much less did I desire conversation with him. They were inspecting his crotch now. His bag may be looser than mine and his balls a bit smaller - less of a target, though the chances that this would make any difference were extrtemely remote. My own inspection followed, and I could feel his eyes on me and imagine his thoughts were not unlike mine.

At noon the spectators adjourned, and we were taken by our handlers to separate rooms to be prepared for the contest which would begin at 2 o’clock. My handler, Ron, was the same one who prepped me for my other bout two weeks before. I’m glad. He’s an ok guy and I know what to expect. First, he cuffed my wrists and fastened the ties to rings overhead, then he drew up a chair and sat to my side, reaching from behind between my thighs and gathering my balls in his grasp. He was gentle, and gave them a light, rolling squeeze which made my cock begin to grow. Yes, they masturbate us, and you go along because these guys know what is best. You want to spill all the cream you can - empty out the seminal vesicles and make it so your balls swell less when you become excited. It doesn’t take long. Ron strokes my shaft and continues squeezing, and, unable to suppress a small cry, I send my spew flying, splattering on the concrete floor in six or seven big globs. Being masturbated also calms the nerves a little. Enjoy what you can, I say.

Next we get trussed up in our thick nylon-reinforced rubber control-straps. These are designed to secure the penis leaving the balls exposed through a hole at the base of a lace-up closure. The hole is surrounded by a hollow ring of the same rubber-nylon as the rest of the jock and through which a cord passes, then continues up through the eyelets back and fourth. Ron pulls the laces tight over the thick flap protecting my cock, closing the hole around the base of my scrotum. Tighter. My erect penis under the laces is pressed into my belly. Tighter, still. The fragile skin of my scrot becomes taut and shiny as my testicles are squeezed down into it. My heart is pounding like a drum. If I hadn’t just squirted, I’d surely be coming now. Next, the padded base of hard vinyl is fitted over the rubber underjock and strapped tightly to my body, with rubber thong deeply wedged between my asscheeks, pressing against my anus and attaching at the back to the thick, padded, adjustable waistband. Ron grunts as he pulls and fastens the straps as tight as he can. Girded firmly, with my testicles pushed forward from my crotch, I’m ready for the final step - attaching the bowl. This comes in two pieces which fit around the base of my scrotum and are then screwed together and solidly mounted on the vinyl base. The bowl is shallow and about four inches across, a black collar with my very pink testicles right in the middle exposed to the blow that would smash them to pulp. A shiver runs through me each time that collar is locked in place.

Ron then fastens the thick, padded leather collar to my neck and the cuffs at my wrists, these being connected to the collar by cords just short enough to prevent you from shielding your nuts with your hands, but long enough to not impair your ability to use the airgun.

From now on you're committed by your vulnerability. A guy who’s naked except for that bowl presenting his parts to danger has nowhere to run, and there are guards carrying airguns and large rubber mallets whose purpose is obvious. You at least stand a chance in a bout, but you’d better put on the right kind of show. Cheat on your part of the bargain, and you get busted. So there is only one thing you can do, and you focus on that - breaking the other guy.

Mercifully, you don’t see him again until the bout actually starts. Then once the play begins you have five minutes and five shots, plus one chance to reload an additional five (fewer, if you’re in a hurry, and, believe me, you will be!). Within that time you’ve got to bust the other guy’s nuts or he’s got to bust yours. If not, its the mallet for both of you - a testicular public execution. During the long minutes before it begins, you think of possible strategies. One thing you don’t want to do is stand still, even if you turn your body to hide the target. In my other bout, the other guy stopped moving long enough for me to hit his kneecap. I closed distance as he went down, hit him in the face with my second shot, and only then, while he was momentarily stunned, did I go for his now fully exposed nuts. I nailed them from only ten feet away. I hope someday I can forget the sound of his scream which ended in a gurgle of vomit. Well, at least now the poor lad is debt-free and and doesn’t have to face two more bouts.

So, you’re sitting there wearing nothing but the stuff at your crotch - the setting for your jewels - waiting for the horror to begin. You’ll probably get the urge to piss, but, tough luck. A lot of guys wet themselves right before the bout begins and the most you can hope for is a quick rinse. There’s no time to be let out of your gear. Besides running imaginary plays and hoping I don’t suddenly need to urinate,I think about the money I might win. Well, there’s actually nothing for me in this second bout if I win, except then I have a shot at winning it all in the third. That’s the deal. Agree to play to win three games or until you lose, and your debts are paid or forgiven, win or lose. Three wins and you’ve won freedom and the jackpot, leaving you less than rich, but with enough for a decent start. Lose, and you have the choice of $2,000 or getting your pulp extracted and your bag restuffed with a set of fake balls. $2,000 won’t buy you much these days. I think all the losers choose the stuffing and six months of hormone replacement therapy. You try hard not to think of that while waiting.

You hear the crowd yelling in the stands, thousands now, and you can’t help shaking. Too much adrenalin for too long. How can you hope to hit your target? Got to calm down! You breathe heavily, deeply. Remember, your opponent is going through exactly the same thing. And then it’s time. They push you into the tiny pen slamming its door behind you and you face the gate which is suddenly raised. The same is happening on the other side of the arena where your opponent emerges. Start running! But the gate is only halfway up and I hadn’t taken my first step when, to my surprise, he takes his first shot, and immediately I’m in a world of agony! No, it wasn’t a direct hit, but the ball slammed into the rim of the bowl and my testicles were racked, but not ruptured. I choke back a scream and resist falling to my knees. Got to move! MOVE!! His second shot hits my left thigh. That stings, but I’m still moving. And the pain actually focuses my thinking. Anger. I want to give it back. I reverse direction now, halfway across the stadium. He’s running, dodging. I take my first shot, going for what worked last time, the kneecap. But it’s a clean miss. Fuck! His first two shots almost bought him the advantage he needed. The bout might have ended in the first five or ten seconds with my balls crushed to pudding, but “almost” really means “wasted shots.” My first may have been a total waste, but at least I still had four shots left to his three. Anyway, this is what I told myself.

Now we became more cautious. We were now only maybe 20 yards apart. To make a direct run at your opponent is suicide - they just see that bowl and its fragile contents growing bigger, and at that distance the ball comes too fast to dodge. So you run obliquely, trying to keep the bowl at as much of an angle to the shooter as possible. Even so, the bowl is so shallow that even at full profile part of your clump remains visible, and I risked my second shot trying to hit his. And did! But I didn’t break him. He screamed in agony, but turned away and awkwardly ran back towards the gate from which he had emerged. In a second he’d have to turn back towards me to defend and I would get another whack at the target. I closed range, ready for the kill, but as he spun around he dropped to the ground and got off a shot of his own, not for my gonads, but for my face to spoil my aim and force me into retreat. It was not so painful a blow, but it served his purpose. My third shot missed, while his hit me in the forehead. The lad’s manouver probably saved him, but it cost him a lot of pain because landing in the dirt, he slammed his bowl flat onto the ground, further bruising his clump.

Both of us were hurting and badly winded, so for the next minute we circled the perimeter of the stadium from opposite sides, keeping our targets turned away from each other. Neither of us was prepared to risk more long shots. Some of the audience began to boo. You can’t get away with “cowardice” for very long. And I suddenly realized that I had lost track of time. Shit! This thing had to end soon, one way or the other, or else... I took the initiative and began a second fast zig-zag approach. This time we both held our shots until we were practically upon each other. I think we both shot first for the head and second for the bowl, and both connected with the first, but missed on the second. We were out of ammunition! The rules don’t allow manual rupturing, so there’s no use grappling. Instead, you run like hell for the ammunition and load balls into your airgun as fast as you can.

I knew I couldn’t afford the time to load more than one or two. Then the crowd began to count and my blood ran cold. “Fifteen!” “Fourteen!” Oh, FUCK! I just dropped the ball! I grab it and manage to get it into the chamber. That’ll have to do. Two shots. “Eleven!” I’m now sprinting as fast as I can at him. He fires, but the ball lands high - my stomach. “Nine!” “Eight!” He’s thrown down his airgun, out of shots! I’m nearly on him, but instead of accepting his fate, he turns and runs! I scream at him. YOU DON'T DO THAT!! But he’s too terrified to be rational. This is what can happen when you let time get away. I shoot at his knee once more to bring him down. And its a hit! He stumbles, then collapses on his stomach. I’ve got to flip him over! But terror has made him strong. “Two!” “One!!”

And so we got mallotted. They did him first, and it was pitiful. At first I had been so furious that his actions had taken me down with him that I wanted him to suffer extra for it. But the poor lad had lost his mind, and his frenzied screaming filled the arena. And since the spectators hadn’t liked his performance at the end, he was handled roughly. The guard gave him a savagely hard blow that not only pulverized his gonads, but his scrotum would be black and blue for weeks. The cheering of the crowd made me sick. He surprisingly didn’t pass out. His piercing shriek lasted three or four seconds and didn’t die away but ended abruptly when his lungs ran out of air. I don’t remember much about my turn. I kept hoping they'd bend the rules to spare me since I had only been a second or two away from busting him. Even the crowd didn't seem so eager, as if the other boy had satisfied their desires. But the matter wasn't even raised - "almost" didn't matter, though it was clear everyone recognized that I had done my best and were sympathetic. They mercifully gave me a sedative, and while the haze set in, they got me off one more time by lightly patting my balls until I passed the last sperm they'd ever produce. The mallot struck only just hard enough to rupture. I passed out, thank God. And I didn’t come to until after the doctors had cleaned out my bag and put in the steelies.

No, my sex life wasn’t destroyed. I can still get a solid erection and the desire to use it, thanks to the hormone therapy. Orgasms are copeous, but lacking actual sperm, of course. No big deal - I never wanted children, anyway. And, maybe surprisingly, there are a lot of people interested in guys who lost bouts - who want to grope those hard, heavy unbreakable nuts or feel them slapping against them as I fuck them full of safely sterile cum.