Nevada Deathmatch - The Conclusion

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The countdown to the beginning of the game had started. Despite the air conditioning, Shane could feel sweat running down his face. He was cold, yet he was sweating. He was scared-yet excited. Peripherally, he was aware that he again had an erection, but he always had one while playing Unreal Tournament, and whether the audience could see his hard-on was the least of his worries. They had already seen him shoot all over his stomach, anyway. Now his balls were at stake. Whenever he moved, he could feel the tug on the wire on his scrotum. He already had four ounces of sand in his bag. If he were killed three or four times, he would have ten to twelve ounces in the bag. Glancing down, although he saw the game representation of himself, he could see the wire tugging on his balls. The wire seemed to end a few inches from his balls.

Leaning forward against his stand, he saw himself begin walking in the game. Whenever he physically turned his head, it turned in the game, also. To stop, he leaned back from the rail.

He had materialized in the game in an alley. Turning his head, looking up and down the alley, he saw no one. He wondered where the others were. Where was Alex?

Alex, peeking around the corner, had seen Shane in the alley. At that moment, Shane had his back to him. He almost shot him, but then remembered that this wasn’t the usual game of deathmatch that they were playing. One-or both-was going to lose his balls in this game.. Stepping around the corner, he said, “Shane,” not knowing whether Shane would hear him or not.

Shane heard him-but it didn’t register on his brain that it was his friend. All he knew was that someone had found him. He whirled and shot. Blood appeared above Alex’s heart. “Shane,” he said again, then collapsed onto the cobblestone alley. Alex died before his eyes. He ran over to where his body lay. When he touched it, it wavered-then disappeared. His display now registered nine bullets.

Shit, he had shot his friend. “Alex,” he called, but there was no answer. Alex had materialized elsewhere in the game, too far away to hear him, but, David Wilkes had heard him.

Meanwhile, Alex had materialized elsewhere in the game. Looking down at his chest, he expected to see blood, but there was none. He did notice, however, an added tug at his balls. “Fucking Shane,” he thought. “The mother fucker shot me. Shit, I’ve got eight ounces-a half pound-of sand pulling on my balls and the game has just started. Fucking Shane, we should have worked together.” Looking down at his balls, he imagined that he could already see the wire begin to cut into his scrotum.

If David had ever played the game before, he could have easily taken out Shane, but, in his haste, he rushed the shot, striking Shane in the arm. Shane dropped, aimed, and shot David in the head, which exploded in a burst of blood and gore. Although he couldn’t feel it, Shane could see the blood on his arm. He had been wounded. Another wound would result in a death. Walking over David’s body added four more bullets to his stock. His display registered two kills. He went looking for Alex.

Worried about the eight ounces of sand tugging at his balls, Alex hid. He didn’t want to get shot again. He didn’t get shot, but he had forgotten about the rule-the one that took a life from the last one to make a kill. Suddenly his display blinked red as it had when Shane had shot him. A “2” appeared next to “died” on his display. He felt an additional tug on his balls. A first he didn’t understand what had happened-then he remembered the rule. Fuck-ten ounces on his balls now. He couldn’t stay hidden. He had to find someone to kill-even if it were Shane.

Ron Howard had been killed five times. The only kill he had made had been a lucky shot he had made after being hit. He could feel the wire cutting into his cock. Every time he moved, it seemed to cut deeper.

Sam and Steve, finding each other soon after the game had started, teamed up, watching each other’s back. Sam had been killed once by a lucky shot fron Ron, but Steve hadn’t yet been killed until they walked into Shane’s sights.

Finding a sniper rifle, Shane had hidden in a tower. With only five rounds for his sniper rifle, he waited for a victim. His first ones were Sam and Steve. Catching a flash of the virtual sun on their virtual blond hair, Shane looked through his scope. Sam and Steve were walking down the far end of the street toward him, one carefully looking in one direction, and the other in another.

His first bullet, although Shane couldn’t tell which brother was which, exploded Sam’s head. Steve, whirling around, saw his almost headless brother, then quickly looked around to determine from where the shot had come. He was still looking when Shane’s second shot exploded his skull. Grinning, Shane lowered his cherished sniper rifle. It and the rocket launcher were his favorite weapons. Although he was concerned about Alex, he hadn’t yet died, and he had six kills. Besides, Sam, Steve, David, and Alex, he had killed Ron Howard twice. Ron shouldn’t count, he thought. He was too easy. Each time, Ron, staring at him stupidly, had provided him an easy shot.

Sam and Steve, upon reviving at separate locations in the game, went looking for each other.

Of the other boys in the game, Ryan Nelson had died twice, but he had killed Ted Cleaver. Ted and Bud Anderson had shot each other, blasting away at close range. Willie Thomas had killed Ryan Nelson, but he had been Alex’s first victim. David Wilkes, upon rematerializing after being killed by Shane, had killed Ryan Nelson. Sam Paris had killed Ron Howard twice, but had been hit by a lucky shot from him. He was Ron’s only kill. Steve had killed Ron when he had stumbled across him while looking for his brother. With six kills and no deaths, Shane was ahead, but he had begun the game with a four ounce handicap. Alex, with ten ounces of sand hanging from his balls, and Ron Howard, with ten ounces hanging from his cock, were in the greatest danger.

Ron was hurting. The pull of the ten ounces of sand on the wire around his cock was causing it to cut into his cock. Even in the game, he could see blood welling around the wire. Besides, he needed to pee, and with the wire around his cock, he couldn’t. Caught up in the game-no longer aware of the audience in the arena-several of the boys had stopped to pee against the side of a building. The audience saw them pee twice, both in the game, and simultaneously at their stations. Pee splattered on the platform, pooling around their feet.

After Alex had died the second time for not having a kill, the second round of the game had started. He had killed Willie Thomas soon after leaving his hiding place. If it hadn’t been for the distraction of the ten ounces of sand tugging at his balls, he might have easily won the game. He had played Unreal Tournament more often than had Shane and had easily beat him when they had played on his father’s computer. Although, since his balls had become numb after being banded, the pull of the sand on his balls wasn’t causing him much pain, he felt the weight of the sand pulling downward on his scrotum every time he moved. Looking down at his balls, the wire seemed to have disappeared into the flesh of his scrotum. Although, on one level, he realized that what he was seeing was only a game created representation of himself, the longer he-and the others-were in the game, the more real it seemed.

Shane was having fun. He killed Ron Howard again. Ron had walked down the center of the street. Again, it had been too easy. Through his sniper scope he had watched Ron’s head explode as the bullet from his rifle smashed into it. The game seemed so much more real than playing Unreal Tournament had been. It was as if he were actually shooting people rather than playing a game. Although Shane would have never really shot anyone, the reality of the game, yet the knowledge that he wasn’t actually killing the person he shot, excited-and aroused him. His cock was hard-throbbing. Sitting down on the floor of the tower with his back to the wall, he began masturbating. Caught up in his orgasm, when it came, pumping his seed simultaneously onto his stomach in the game, and onto the floor of the platform in the arena, he hadn’t heard Sam Paris creep up the stairs of the tower.

Sam, after materializing and coming onto the tower from the rear, had realized that the shot that had killed him had probably come from the tower. He crept up the stairs with his rifle ready. Although surprised to see Shane sitting on the floor masturbating with his eyes closed, he blew him away just as Shane’s come squirted onto his stomach.

Shane materialized in another part of the city with come still spurting from his cock. Dying while in the midst of an orgasm had been an exquisite experience. For awhile, he didn’t know where he was-whether he was alive, or had really died. Holding his rifle in one hand, he pumped his cock with the other until all his spunk was expended. Although, in the arena, his hand never touched his cock, his orgasm was just as real there as it had been in the game.

__________

“Shit,” said Bob. “Look at that kid spurt.” Bob was having trouble deciding which image he wanted to watch, the game representation of Shane masturbating or the come spurting out of the real boy’s cock. He kept glancing back and forth between the two. “Who do you think will be the first one to lose his balls, Al?”

“I don’t know who will lose his balls first, but I think that Ron Howard’s about to lose his cock. Look, it is already bleeding.”

__________

Blood was dripping from Ron’s cock both in the game and in the arena. When he had tried to reach his cock with his hand in the arena, they had fastened gloves on him which had flared cuffs which prevented him from sticking his hands below the table. Although, in the game, he held onto his cock to take some of the pressure off, it did no good, since, in the arena, he couldn’t. With twelve ounces of sand pulling on it, the wire was cutting deeper into his cock with each movement. He should have been paying attention to the game, but all he could think about was the pain in his cock. Ryan Nelson, who had been killed for the third time by Willie Thomas, killed him easily; then Ron died at the end of round two because he hadn’t a kill for the round. He had sixteen ounces of sand hanging from his cock.

When he materialized again, he just sat there on the ground. He didn’t attempt to find someone to kill. The pain in his cock was too great. Ted Cleaver killed him as he sat; then Bud Anderson killed him soon after he materialized. At twenty ounces, his cock separated from his body, sliding down the tube in the arena. In the game, he could see it lying on the ground-then the game was over for him.

Attendants removed him from his station, taking him to the first aid station where a doctor removed the rest of his penis and performed a bi-lateral orchidectomy. Ron would live, but without a cock or balls. When he healed, other than some scars, there would be no indication that he had ever been a boy. His ureatha was relocated to below where his balls had been so he could pee sitting down.

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The sight of Ron’s cock sliding down the tube had caused another wet spot to appear on Bob’s pants. “What’s the score, Al?” he asked.

Al had lost track of who had killed whom. Many of the kills had happened almost simutaneously. Looking at the scoreboard, he read off the statistic that counted-ounces of sand. “The score is as follows: Shane Cumbac has six ounces; Alex Trebeck has ten; Sam Paris has six; Steve Paris-four; Ryan Nelson has ten ounces; Bud Anderson and Teddy Cleaver each have eight. Willie Thomas has six; and David Wilkes has eight.”

“Then, Steve Paris is ahead in the game?”

“He has the least amount of sand hanging from his balls,” answered Al, “but, Shane Cumbac, with ten, has the most kills-and Shane has only died once. He started with a four ounce handicap.”

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Because his eyes had been closed, Shane hadn’t known who had killed him, but it didn’t matter. He could feel the extra two ounces of sand tugging at his sack. Six ounces was enough. He wanted no more. The only way to prevent it was to kill the others in the game. He had decided that he wanted to keep his balls. The pleasure he had derived from his last orgasm, had empathized their importance. Even if it meant that Alex had to lose his balls, he meant to keep his. Besides, he rationalized, Alex liked being fucked more than he did. To make Alex happy, he would still continue to fuck him-although they would have to be more careful in the future.

Had he been aware of Shane’s rationalization, Alex wouldn’t have been pleased. Although he liked being fucked, he had always masturbated while Shane was fucking him. Much of the pleasure of being fucked had been the pressure of Shane’s cock on his prostate when he had come. It had always intensified his orgasms. Without balls, there would be no orgasms. While being fucked might still be pleasurable, he had lived for the orgasms. Besides, he owed Shane a death. Four of the ounces pulling on his balls, he blamed on Shane. If Shane hadn’t killed him, they could have ganged up on the rest of the guys in the game-although he hadn’t considered what would happen when only he and Shane were left. Shane had been like a brother to him, but when the choice was your brother or your balls? Before it might have been a difficult choice, but, now, he was pissed. He owed Shane a death-then maybe he would consider an alliance.

Shane was pleased. He had found a rocket launcher. Although it only had two rounds, it was a hell of a weapon. With it, he wouldn’t have to hit his target; he would only have to come close. Peeking around a corner he saw Sam and Steve Paris, who had teamed up again. With one shot from his rocket laucher, Shane killed them again. Body parts, gore, and blood, were spread across the square. Shane added to his weapons the sniper rifle he had lost when Sam had killed him, but it had only one round. Hearing shots, and seeing rounds ricochet off the street, he turned and ran. Looking back, he saw Teddy Cleaver and Bud Anderson, who had teamed up, running toward him, firing as they ran. Inexperienced, they had been too far away when they had begun shooting to easily hit Shane, and firing while running hadn’t been effective either. Shane ducked around a corner, then fired his last rocket as the boys entered the square. Splatted across the square, they never knew what hit them. Two shots with his rocket launcher and he had four kills. That was fourteen all together. Hearing a noise behind him, he threw down the empty rocket launcher, exchanging it for his rifle. When he looked around, he saw Alex standing there with a rifle pointed at him. Alex’s balls were distended and turning black. There was an ugly wound where the wire was attached. “Alex,” he said. Surely his friend wouldn’t shoot him-not in cold blood-but, he did.

Surprised, Shane materialized with an additional two ounces of sand tugging at his balls. Eight ounces-a half pound of sand-hung from his balls. Although his balls were numb, he could feel, or imagined that he could feel, the wire cutting into them. “Fucking Alex,” he thought. “he deliberately shot me. I shot him by accident. Now, I owe him one.”

Alex felt better after shooting Shane. Shane’s balls didn’t look nearly so bad as his felt. It was only right that the score was evened somewhat. He looked at Shane’s body for a moment before walking over it to retrieve Shane’s weapons, but distracted, he didn’t hear Willie Thomas, who, attracted by the gunshots and explosions had come onto the scene. He blew apart Alex’s head and was, in turn, killed by Sam Paris who had rushed back to the square after materializing to get revenge on whoever had killed him and his brother.

Alex materialized in front of Shane. He had twelve ounces of sand pulling on his nut sack. “No!” he yelled, pleading, as Shane aimed his rifle, “don’t shoot me.” But, Shane feeling the added sand pulling on his nuts-knowing that Alex had put it there-shot, over and over, emptying his rifle into Alex.

When Alex materialized he was really in distress. Four ounces had quickly been added to the sack. Four ounces might not seem like much, but when it has been added to the ten that was already pulling on one’s balls, especially when those fourteen ounces were in a bag attached to a sharp wire around one’s nut sack, it was a lot. Alex’s balls didn’t look good either. His scrotum was black and blood was welling around the wire where it was attached to his scrotum. There would have likely been more, if it hadn’t been for the band. Distracted by his balls, Alex was soon killed again, this time by David Wilkes. When he materialized this time, he had a full pound of sand pulling on his balls.

Luckily, Shane was able to retrieve five rounds from Alex’s body since he had emptied his rifle into it. Before he walked across it to retrieve the ammunition, he noticed how bad Alex’s balls looked. He hoped that his didn’t look so bad. Alex had been his fifteen kill. With, David Wilkes, Ryan Nelson, and Willie Thomas, he soon added three more-eighteen.

__________

“What’s the score now, Al?”

“Ryan Nelson has eighteen ounces of sand, Alex Trebeck, Willie Thomas, and Teddy Cleaver each have sixteen. David Wilkes and Bud Anderson each have fourteen, Sam Paris has twelve. Steve Paris and Shane Cumbac each have eight.

“Would I be right in saying that some of these boys are in trouble?”

“Yes, Bob. Ryan Nelson and Alex Trebeck don’t look good at all. I would say that the wire has cut about half way through each of their sacks.”

“Yeah, their balls have turned black.”

“Yeah, I doubt that their balls would survive, even if, by some miracle, one of them won the game.”

__________

Shane killed Steve Paris, but Sam got him. The twins were difficult. They covered for each other. Shane wished he had teamed with Alex. He needed someone to cover his back. With that in mind, he went looking for Alex.

Alex had been killed again. He had eighteen ounces dangling from his balls now. When he saw Shane, he began firing wildly, thinking that Shane had come to kill him. Shane fired in self defense. When Alex was hit, instead of dying, his balls fell off. Shane watched as the wire cut through his scrotum, sliding down the cords holding his balls, hesitating briefly when it struck his balls, then stripping them from their cords. He stood there for a moment, with the cords dangling from his crotch-then dematerialized.

Back in the arena, attendants, pulling Alex from his station, rushed him to first aid. The doctor, making an incision on each side of his abdomen, pulled the mangled cords through and tied them off. The remains of his scrotum were stitched together. When Alex healed, other than small scars, there would be no sign that he had ever had balls.

In the game, Shane was aghast. He had castrated his friend. He hadn’t meant to do it; he had been caught up in the game. When they had played it at home, losing the game was the worst that could happen. In this game, if you lost, you lost your balls. That Alex had lost his balls, he had no doubt. He could feel the weight-ten ounces dangling from his.

Ryan Nelson soon lost his. It happened much as it had to Alex. The wire cut through his scrotum then stripped the cords of their balls, leaving the cords dangling from his crotch. Ryan fainted. He was unconscious when they took him to first aid.

Shane concentrated on those who were left, avoiding Sam and Steve Paris. There were times when he could have killed one of them, but, in doing so, he would have probably been killed by the other. With ten ounces of sand already pulling on his balls, it wasn’t worth the risk. He became cagey, avoiding a fight, if there was a strong possibility that he would be killed. As a result, Sam and Steve made several kills, castrating, Teddy Cleaver, Bud Anderson, and David Wilkes, but they had been killed several times, too. Shane castrated Willie Thomas.

It had taken thirty ounces to strip his balls, which had been proportional to his cock. In the arena, the audience had gasped, when they had slid down the tube, leaving his huge cock somehow diminished by their loss. The doctor, upon seeing Willie’s cock, wanted it, so he removed it, had it plasticized, and kept it, in an erect state, on his desk. There were some rumors that he occasionally took it home to use as a dildo on his wife.

Poor Willie, the only thing that had distinguished him from all other skinny fifteen year-old boys had been his huge cock. He had lost count of the girls he had fucked. He also lost count of the men who fucked him as he worked in a whorehouse after recovering form his surgery.

Eventually, only the Paris brothers and Shane were left in the game. Shane shot and castrated Sam, relieving Steve of the dilemma of what he would have done if the twins had castrated the rest, but he was killed by Steve. By this time, he had eighteen ounces of sand hanging from his balls. Steve had twenty.

Killed once again by Steve, he killed him twice, castrating him at twenty-four ounces. He was elated-but mostly relieved-when he saw the wire strip off Steve’s balls, leaving the virtual cords glinting in the virtual sunlight as they whipped back and forth after being relieved of their burden. He had twenty ounces of sand hanging from his balls. Whipping off his his helmet, he yelled. “I won! Cut the wire. Cut the God Damn wire!”

__________

“Well, Al, we have a winner.” Bob said, as they carried Shane to first aid.

“I wonder, Bob. Did you see his balls?”

__________

Shane’s balls weren’t removed, but they never recovered from the trauma. After several months, he still had his scrotum, but his balls had shrunk so that they were no more than hard peas in their sack. He no longer woke up with an erection. In fact, he no longer had erections-or a desire to masturbate. Although he saw Suzy Lantz in school every day, he no longer stared at her tits, or paid her any more attention than he did anyone else. She no longer caused a stiring in his groin. His cock-never hard-shrank until it was never more than two and one-half inches.

Alex, because his father was in prison, was sent to a boys’ home. Shane saw him years later, but they no longer had anything in common-other than that neither of them had balls, or any desire to have sex.