Too Big For My Britches

Every time somebody says so-and-so has really got a pair, really got balls, I flush like a boy, or like a girl, I don’t know which, I feel that gap between my legs and am afraid I will get de-pantsed right in the street and everybody will see my now useless little three-inch dick trying to retreat further into me out of shame. I’m afraid the women will laugh and point and the men will blow me mocking kisses. I’m afraid they’ll see how soft my butt is, lift up my shirt and see the suspiciously fleshy chest, laugh at my soft unmuscular body.

The body of a former gymnast, a former power, swinging up on the bars, the rings…but I can’t anymore, because Olga cut my balls off.

Olga was a spy, no worse than a spy, from another university, a hireling, for some monstrous consortium.

Everyone could see I was going places, was more than in contention for the Olympics, and I was a threat, so they sent her, this hulky, bulky older lady, posing as a trainer, a special coach, a whole resume and background invented for her, apparently. That’s why my own coach, Mr. Robin, stepped aside.

They sent her for my testicles and she got them.

She told me in one late night practice session all alone in the gym, as she watched me land spread-eagled on the bars, that my form was off, that I had to spread me legs further, that judges in fierce competition would deduct points for this “lack of grace, artistic form” so she had me do this one move over and over, but she remained unpleased.

“Peter, this will not do. Something is making you land heavier than you should, preventing a wider spread also, and I think I know what it is. If I’m right I know just how to fix you.”

She spoke as she always did, all business, not harsh, but as a coach.

“Now we will go into the office.” Dressed in my tank top and shorts, I followed her back into the coach’s office. She bent her bulk – really she was like some Russian grandmother or something, short cropped hair, heavy, big busted and hipped, perfunctory dark clothes, even clunky stubby shoes – to retrieve some bottle from her satchel set down over by the wall. “First, my boy, I want you to drink this, it’s a special preparation.”

That was new, “my boy,” I’d always been “Peter” to her, but sweating from the practice session and trusting as a puppy, I swigged from the proffered bottle quickly, some nutrient water something or other I assumed.

Within moments I felt remarkably good, a kind of calm coming over me, she gestured for me to take a seat on the sports bench in front of her – part of the regular coach’s decorating inspiration - while she leaned back against the front of the desk.

“Whenever you’re ready, Peter, I’m going to ask you to pull down your pants, disrobe completely from the waist down – as I need to check your testicles, I suspect you are too big for your britches...actually you can keep on your shoes and socks, but I just need you step out of your pants, the supporter too, so let’s get them off.”

The drugged drink was already taking effect. While I’m sure I would have complied anyway, eventually, after all, athletes are examined, seen stripped, treated in some ways like fine animals, etc., routinely, surely I would have hesitated more doing it in front of a female somewhat more. This seemed natural, though, as though the request of a physician.

You know, lots of star athletes, the basketball, football players, are stuck on themselves, but gymnasts, we’re a lonely bunch, not swelled headed about physical beauty or even being pursued by groupies, it’s an isolated thing, really, a lonelier field than people imagine.

I stood up, shucked down my white shorts and peeled down my supporter, kicking them away. Even before she commented, I knew she was right, freed from the supporter, my balls swung down low and loose glad to be released.

“As I suspected, Peter! Your testicles – let’s call them balls, my boy, your balls are way, way too big, that’s your problem, it’s a wonder you can heft yourself up at all, but now wonder you can’t spread your legs very well, that’s the biggest set and sack I’ve ever seen, you’re got too much between them, your legs, don’t you agree?”

I did agree, I had no sensation of being drugged, or being hypnotized, even looking back, that was not the feeling, but of course, looking back, obviously I was, and in some way that drink had already unmanned me, there was no “male will” left certainly no male logic, and my balls were lolling around on the bench for her eyes and her scissors already.

“So, Peter, I’m going to fix you. You want to be fixed don’t you?"

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want to be fixed.”

She reached into her satchel and brought out a big pair of scissors, kitchen poultry shears I guess you would call them.

Now I know in all the stories, the woman jerks off the man or blows him and he cums for the last time…but that’s not what this was, not what she was after, she wanted to just cut them the fuck off me.

Me, my 8” incher was just semi-erect, I was not “aroused”, this was not, sexual, this was…I was…somehow already nutted, it’s hard to explain.

She got me to lie on my back on the bench. I wonder how I looked to her then, a blond 21 year old gymnast on his back just wearing a tank top, gym shorts and sneakers, his arms back nestling his head and his thick legs spread, big blond ox with avocado sized scrotum containing lemon sized testicles, ridiculously maled.

She quickly jabbed me in the butt with a little hypodermic she produced, then gave me a little inhaler bottle and told me to sniff repeatedly. I was now in another world.

“Peter, I’m going to cut that scrotum off, cut your balls off.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please cut my balls off.”

I felt one Russian grandmother hand grasp around way up close to my groin, she indeed had me by the balls, then, through the haze of drugs and inhaler saw and felt the poultry shears she held in her other hand. She pulled my balls hard out, had them pulled way out and then took the shears and cut them off, she just cut them the whole bag right off, it was quick, only felt some dull distant ache. I felt some hot liquid between my legs, felt her doing some work, some work, I was being stitched, that was some powerful stuff she had given me.

“There my b…Oh you’re not a boy anymore are you, without your balls, aren’t you glad I cut them off you, look?” She had my balls, no, her balls now, in her hand, I saw her throw it into her satchel.”

I felt, yes, light between my legs, something missing, felt relieved of a burden, I was starting to sit up but another quick sudden shot in my butt and I was out.

They found me, Coach Robin and another player, the next morning, de-scrotumed and de-balled, still asleep, rushed me to the hospital, but of course nothing could be done. In fact, they left Olga’s stitches in place.

All hush, hush it was, but of course I’d lost my strength, and no amount of steroids could help, they were too expensive, too erratic, illegal under competitive rules, and just too dangerous. After a few weeks I finally head to leave town, when the Coach, alone with me one day, put what I thought was a solicitous arm around me, and then kissed me.

Now I’m 25, still blond, 30 pounds plumper, have no upper body strength, can barely pull out my dick to piss, and I walk though the streets like a blond pink capon. A boy who had balls won the Olympics.