By justoneguy

Dustin was bent over the bottom bunk bed. His arms were laying outstretched to either side down the length of the unmade—and most likely unwashed—sheets of the bed. They were not bound, but his two strong limbs lay motionless on the sheets. The fine brown hairs of his forearms bent against the wrinkles in the sheets. The skin of his broad and strong back was stretched tight over rolling bulges of muscle. But his back was striped with a few pink lines where the bed sheets had pressed into his smooth skin as he slept. The neatly groomed hairs of his neck bristled as his head lulled and moved groggily against the soft mattress. The strong “V” shape of his body was apparent as his flanks narrowed toward his hips. His bare butt stuck out from the edge of the bed. His limp legs dangled motionless over the cheep carpet of his dorm room floor. His worn dirty sneakers with the last pair of small footy socks—the ones that most hip college guys seemed to favor now-a-days—were nestled between his flaccid feet. “Nuuhhhhh,” he groaned into the muffling cushion of the bed. It wasn’t a sound of pain, just of confusion and surprise and bewilderment. How had this happened to him? What exactly was happening? Why couldn’t he move?

The answer was of course THE SHOT—as many other young men on that college campus were discovering that same night. The shot was a weapon any weaker woman could use to incapacitate a stronger male. And once made helpless, she could make sure he was rendered weak forever. The local chapter of the Woman’s Empowerment League had received the shipment of THE SHOT just a few nights ago. Boxes and boxes of little syringes, each brightly colored and made to look “hip”, not really medical at all. The needles were to be used when under assault by a man—a rapist or beater. But the University’s chapter or WEL had particular beliefs about males in general. And their definition of assault was pretty broad. Just the presence of men on campus, with their leering eyes and hungry mouths, their overbearing muscles and their aggressive tendencies, was enough to make a woman feel uncomfortable. And everyone had the RIGHT to feel comfortable. But the administration would not listen to WEL’s arguments, and men were still allowed to wonder the campus, go to class, hit on unsuspecting co-eds, and—what’s worse— flaunt their physical strength in front of their female counterparts in a variety of men-only sporting events.

So, when the boxes of THE SHOT showed up for the WEL girls, they decided to make a statement the university would never forget. Each member swore to find a guy and use him as an example. They were encouraged to use someone they knew—not a stranger—because that would lessen the charge the administration was sure to make against them, that they simply attacked random men who they didn’t like anyway. This was to be a political statement. Any avenue that the opponents of progress and liberation would make against them should be headed off at the pass. So the women all chose men they knew.

One young woman named Sally chose a male friend that often hung out with their group. He was a nice guy named Dave, who had never done anything to anybody. He hadn’t even dated any of the girls in the group, although he had a college-boy crush on a few. She chose him because he was unassuming—a nice guy. What better statement could there be of the “original sin” aspect of male aggression? All are guilty; degrees are not a factor.

Sally phrased the WEL philosophy this way: “A male’s spirit is just like his body. When a guy walks up to you, clean cut, well groomed, well dressed, he seems so civilized and handsome. But when he is naked, you see the ugliness of what he really is—a hairy body with big ugly boulders hanging behind a scarlet-headed snake. Not refined, not clean, and not wholesome, but a hanging mass of flesh. And when he is aroused, no matter how nice he was at the restaurant or how many flowers he has brought you, that hanging flesh becomes an untamed, barbarous beast, mindless in its single purpose—to pursue and penetrate. When he is finished and content again, his mind will doubtless return to its normal balance. He might hold you and cuddle with you. But the slobbering, grunting, mindlessly humping beast is his true face. The act of sex strips the façade of nobility away—revealing the truth underneath—just as striping his clothes reveals the true barbarity of his nude form.”

Several sorority girls agreed on a corresponding number of fraternity guys for their SHOTS. They had pledged the same year, and therefore gone to the formals and parties together all through college. Now that they were seniors, they knew each other very well. And could therefore conduct the protest—or “statement” as they called it—without much difficulty.

As a further sign of the depth of their beliefs, two women made a special arrangement. They each had a brother at the University; one was an older sibling and the other a younger. On that night, the night when they staged the protest, each girl would find the other’s brother, no matter where he was on campus, and perform the plan on him. Their own brothers would be sacrificed for the cause. What better statement of commitment could there be?

Dustin’s girlfriend had gone one better. She wasn’t just his girlfriend, after all, but his fiancée.

Her name was Nancy, an artistic young woman looking to get her master’s degree in art. Her artistic tastes and subject matters were of little interest to Dustin. He was, after all, an undergrad, only 21 years old. And expressions of modern feminine art were of no interest to him. Now, contemporary feminine beauty—that was always on his mind. And Nancy certainly had her share of that as well. She was a full figured young woman, not thin and gaunt as a fashion model. But not overweight either. Just an average young beauty with pale skin, long raven hair, and deep brown eyes. She dressed in a somewhat sloppy fashion. And if Dustin had his preference, she would wear more makeup and take more time with her appearance. But it wasn’t her style. She was the type of person that considered what she left undone as telling about her beliefs and truths as the hours she spent perfecting her art.

Dustin was a much more conventional young man. He was above average in height with the slim muscular build of a young man equally at home on the pick-up basketball court or the video game couch. His face was easy going and handsome, with brown hair clipped short and neat and dark blue eyes over smooth cheeks. His shoulders were broad and strong and his stomach slim. His skin was still smooth, with any hair on his chest or behind generally so blond that it didn’t show against his flesh. He kept the hair of his crotch trimmed neatly as well—a dark blond patch of hair on an otherwise youthful body. (Nancy, of course, preferred the natural, dark, and broad seventies bush for her privates—something Dustin generally didn’t mind except when oral sex was involved.) He dressed in preppy clothes but often compensated for this by leaving his shirt unbuttoned or his pants slouchy. Despite his youthful appearance, he was pretty mature for his age in spirit. He had proposed to Nancy early in his senior year mostly because he wanted to cement their relationship before she got her masters degree and perhaps left campus. He loved her because of her feistiness. He always smiled when she started debating modern feminism with his college buddies. She always had chapter and verse for their more mundane arguments. And if there were little things about her that he didn't like, as mentioned above, he figured they would work themselves out. He was like any nice young man in college, thinking about settling down while hungry to be on the prow for something new. Nancy certainly was something new. And if their engagement turned sore, he would certainly be upset. But right now, he liked her being his woman and him being her man.

Just a few hours before, after dinner and a movie, Dustin had felt every muscle of his body flex and tense to its maximum in a single instant. Every muscle, that is, except for those embedded deep in his groin, surrounding the root of his throbbing penis. In that moment, those muscles were contracting involuntarily, massaging his prostate and the inner nerves of his pelvis while the rest of his body’s muscles locked with overwhelmed tension. “Uurrgghhhhhhhhh.” He heard his own grunting release of breath as if it were foreign, a final cry as the contractions in his groin subsided and his body returned to his control. He ground his pelvis against Nancy’s slick hot mound in a desperate attempt to keep the contractions and throbbings of his own orgasm radiating for an instant longer. But they quickly subsided. As the pulses diminished, like the warm final rays of a dying sun, his sweaty exhausted body was left quivering atop his lover. He held her for a moment; the strength of the arms that had propped his body over hers during his eager humping now clutched to her smooth bony shoulders as his chest clammily clung to her stomach and breasts. Then he rolled off of her. His half-soft dick popped free of her body. The flared head of his circumcised prick pulled half the seed his muscles had just pumped into her out onto the damp bed sheets. The right side of the dorm room bunk bed was freezing cold against his sweaty back. He felt the memory of his lover’s hands clinging to the muscles of his back fade as his sweat soaked into the sheets. Then he felt her hand on his chest, then her head, as she lay on top of him, content to hear his heartbeat and feel his chest rise in exhausted breathing as he drifted off into the most content sleep a male can know.

As he lay in the bed half awake from a spent sleep, his nude body was on full display. This was Nancy’s doing. She pulled the sheets back from him when she got up. It appealed to her art to see him like this—a strong fit young man nude and asleep. He was still a young man, and would have been at least a little self-conscious had he been fully awake. As it was, he only shifted a little under the coolness of the room and blinked his sticky eyes. His soft genitals hung between his wide stretched legs with masculine heaviness. His penis was average sized when soft, circumcised with a pale pink helmet and a brighter pink scar. Erect, he was a powerful young man—6.5” in length. The thickness of his organ was perhaps average, but the plum purple head was wide. Nancy was particularly good at blowing his pole. She loved to tongue the underside of his cock, where the flared edges of his glans were like two ripe grapes pressed together. How he squirmed and moaned then! His sac hung low against his taint, heavy and hairless, with a tanned pink tint that set his stones off from the paleness of his thighs. Nancy was watching him lay there. She was now fully clothed in a ratty looking T-shirt (that was actually bran new) that sported some sort of revolutionary slogan. Her black hair was wild around her face—uncombed from the friction of the bed. She looked down at Dustin’s peaceful face. It was amazing to her how sleep somehow stripped a masculine face of much of its power. His lips barely touched each other and his brow was smooth. He displayed none of the bravado and cockiness that he normally kept up—as if he needed to express a certain amount of masculine control in their relationship. He just lay there, his chest rising and lowering easily and smoothly. Finally, his unfocusing eyes cleared somewhat and met hers.

“Hey,” he said with a sleepy smile. His groin suddenly remembered a hint of the post intercourse glow from the night before—like a tickle behind his balls.

“Hey,” Nancy said, smiling herself.

“What time is it?” Dustin asked as he rubbed his eyes. His roommate would be back from sleeping over with his own girlfriend in the morning. He wanted to be in his underwear at least by then. He figured that was why Nancy was dressed now.

“Just after midnight,” Nancy said with a whisper, letting her fingers gently stroke the side of his face. “Go on back to sleep. I just had a few art ideas and wanted to work on them. Art’s got to happen in the moment, you know.”

Dustin coughed and rolled his tongue around his dry sticky mouth. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, rubbing the prickly hairs of his head. He pulled the sheet up over his body and rolled over into what had been Nancy’s side of the bed. It was still warm against his skin. He was on his side now. The sheets on top of his sleepy form wrinkled and gathered. His legs were bent at the knees. Nancy thought how he looked like a long mountain chain rising up from the bed, strong, impassible. She fingered the Shot in her right hand. With her left, she leaned over and pulled the sheets away from his body. Dustin felt the rush of cool air against his back and behind. It made him a little more alert, mostly the cold air against his flesh, but also because Nancy often pulled at the sheets when he slept alone as a prelude to sex. With his eyes still gently closed, his lips bent into a content and pleased smile. He started to role over onto his back, to display his nudity to his woman as a further enticement. But before he could move, he felt the jab, a sharp stab like a bee sting in his rear. But the pain spread out into the hard muscle of his backside, then dulled and turned all the muscles of his body warm. “Hhuuunnnnn,” he groaned with a thick tongue.

Nancy leaned over and gripped her lover’s meaty shoulder and pulled his heavy frame over. Dustin felt his back fall onto the warm mattress, but it seemed distant—as if his skin were disconnected from his muscles and bones. His eyes were open and staring. They met Nancy’s. She looked away, catching sight of his soft hanging parts. They dangled heavily between his strong but unmoving thighs, filling up the space made by the “v” of his legs meeting the underside of his body. Nancy looked at those parts in the pale desk light of the dorm room. Dustin’s manhood. It was like she was seeing it for the first time. They seemed different to her now than in the times she had showered with her man, or when he had undressed hurriedly for an after class romp. They seemed alien and bizarre—only vaguely human—nothing like anything on her body. Hanging, loose, soft, so sensitive. They didn’t seem strong at all, or even particularly hungry. The delicate noodle of his penis lulled over top of his fat back of balls like a sleeping animal, the pale pink helmet head quiet and purposeless. His velvety sac of skin that contained his hard-boiled eggs was soft and wrinkled and helpless—not the image most human males project about they balls—or themselves. Her lover’s eyes pleaded up to her, big and brown, not knowing, not understanding, like a loving but unintelligent puppy dog. She glanced into them. “Nnuuuhhhh,” her lover groaned. She looked at his strong form, which could easily of overpowered her or fled had the Shot not immobilized its native strength. She leaned down and put both hands on his strong pectoral muscles, feeling the softness of his flesh and the hard, warm, but helpless muscle underneath. Then she brought those same hands up to her own breasts slung into her cotton bra. She felt the softness, the sponginess of her own body, the textures of her inner tits. How different they were than his chest. How foreign and exotic they must have felt in his hands. She swallowed, feeling suddenly aroused. But there was no time for petty personal feelings. There was work to be done.

She leaned down and grabbed her lover’s ankles, feeling the soft thin brown hairs that ringed the top of his feet. With a heavy, she pulled his legs off the bed, spinning his hips, and twisting his torso awkwardly against the sheets. “Hhhhunngg,” he grunted as his body shifted against his will. His eyes, at first just quizzical, now seemed concerned. His big beefy legs felt impossibly heavy to Nancy, and she hiked them under each of her arms. With another great pull, she slid his body farther off the bed until his numb butt was just on the edge. He was now in the middle of the bed, legs dangling off the side, head bent unnaturally against the sheets and the wall on the other side. Nancy moved onto the bed on her knees. Dustin felt the sharp depression her weight made on the mattress near his side. She grabbed his arm in one hand and gripped his hip in the other. And pushed. She was amazed by how heavy he felt. All that weight had been on top of her earlier in the night, propped up over her with their hips joined in a mad union of movement. But while he had felt large and strong in her arms, he hadn’t felt heavy like he did now. It is because I have robbed him of his will, she thought. He was dead weight. With a mighty heave, she managed to turn his body over on the mattress. His left arm was trapped under him. One of his shoulder blades stuck up, making a sharp angle in the smooth skin of his shoulders. She pulled it out and laid his flaccid arm down across the bed. Then she crawled off the bed, taking care not to hit her head on the hard metal frame of the top bunch.

She looked at him, her lover, lying naked on the bed, helpless, unmoving. She could hear his breath. His head was turned to one side. And he grunted some as he breathed. Trying to talk, she figured. But the Shot had taken care of that too. She considered his body: broad, strong, taking up so much space on the bed. His toned ass hung over the side of the bed, the tense cheeks dusted with fine tan hairs. She had been in that position many times for him, bent over the bed, her butt in the air, waiting to receive his hard hungry manhood into her body. But he had never been in that position. Never. Under his ass she saw the meaty twin jewels of his manhood hanging like two heavy eggs in a cotton sock. The soft sensitivity—the vulnerability—of those unique nuts belied their amazing power. They had masculinized their owner’s this scrawny body, turning his form into the strong substantial bull lying helpless before her. They had thickened his neck and deepened his squeaky voice into the heavy tones of manhood. They had powered the development and maturity of his penis—his tool of manhood and reproduction. They had filled his mind with desire and need—for women and their bodies, for his own fulfillment as a male. They produced the warm seed that held his potential to create life—to reproduce himself. But what were they? They were just two hanging balls in a velvet sack of flesh. Loose, hanging, taking up the space between the legs. So masculine, she thought, running her hand down her own front and feeling the emptiness between her thighs. She felt a tingle of desire for him, but the teachings of WEL also sent a wave of disgust through her mind. He was a man, not safe, loving only in terms of his own fulfilled needs. No matter how well dress or how well concealed, that hanging fruit between his legs was the fat, bulging, obscene reality of his being.

She reached out and took them gently into her hand, like a lover. “Hhhuuhhhh,” her helpless man moaned into the sheets. What was he trying to say? She moved the velvet skin of his male bag between her fingers, feeling the fibers of the skin and hair. Such a unique piece of flesh, nothing like anything that her own body possessed. She fingered the tubes and the fluffy backing that connected his man-balls to his body, suspending them in their protective sack. And those twin orbs, the surface both smooth and slightly ridged their existence both tough and sensitive, they were amazing. So soft, so loose, so tender feeling. She vibrated her fingers against the delicate neck of his sack, feeling his heavy orbs shift and gently bounce against the palm of her hand. She had no doubt that he would miss them. So would she. So would the other guys whom her sisters were visiting that night. And all together, their statement would be made. She smiled. “Yeah, you really are going to miss these. Like a boy losing his two best friends.”

Dustin heard this. The shot did not affect his sight or hearing. His eyes went wide, the whites shining back to Nancy’s face. “NNNNuuuhhhhhhh,” he grunted into the sheets. He knew it; knew what was happening. Oh god, it was fucking crazy! Fuck, his balls were just hanging there. He could feel them bounce between his thighs and the edge of the mattress as she released them from her hand. God, he couldn’t move his legs; he couldn’t move his body. His balls were just hanging there, just hanging, with nothing to cover them, nothing to protect them, nothing to save them.

Nancy reached under the bed for the device she had secreted there before their night of passion. It was a black device that looked somewhat like a hole puncher or some other office supply. It had a smooth metal grip and a handle. It sort of looked like a supped-up pair of scissors. But the end was not sharp. The tip was blunt, with four little black screws making a little box. Nancy reached for her purse and pulled a little rubber ring from a plastic baggy. It was colored florescent orange and was about the size of the very tip of her pinky. She hooked the little ring easily over the four tiny black screws. Then she held the device in her right hand and looked back to Dustin.

He was still lying in the same position; arms outstretched down either side of the bed, legs hanging off the side. He hadn’t moved a muscle. He couldn’t voluntarily move a muscle. His head was still turned on its side, his eyes bright and clear, focused. But he couldn’t move his head to see anything not already in his line of sight. His mouth hung open, lips gently parted as if awaiting a kiss. Nancy held the device up for him to see. The pale light of the desk lamp gleamed against the slick black metal of the cruel device. “I want you to know that I don’t take any pleasure in this on a personal level. You’ve been a pretty good boyfriend, not a jerk like some. Perhaps a little self-involved, but we all have our shortcomings. In fact, the reason it has to be you is that I DO care for you. It would be meaningless for us to make such a statement as the one we are making tonight without sacrifice on our part. A true artist, a true activist never demands sacrifice from others without being willing to make those sacrifices themselves. That is why it has to be you. I have to feel it as much as you do. All over the campus tonight, other women like me are taking action. You won’t be alone in this. I know for a fact that Gloria is going to do Steve. Maybe it will help to have such a close friend go through the same thing with you.” Dustin’s eyes squeezed two tears onto the sheets, making two little damp circles. Nancy looked over her shoulder. It was 12:13. Only two more minutes. She looked back to her helpless lover. “Only a minute to go,” she said, her face grim. It was more difficult than she thought, going through with it. But the cause was the cause, and who among us is truly innocent? She flexed her hand, squeezing the handles of the device together. But the resistance was too strong. She gripped the device with both hands, leaning against her knee for added force, and pushed with all her feminine might. She felt the amazing resistance of the orange ring as the four little screws pulled the tiny circle into a four-by-four inch square. The tension strained her hands. She felt a muscle on the back of her hand pop painfully as she gave the device one more straining squeeze. And the she felt it click into place. Her hands relaxed, feeling clammy and weak. But the device was set, the handles locked together, the opposite end now open. The four small screws were now far apart from each other, and the orange ring was now stretched wide into a square shaped band, held open by the device’s metal lock. She fingered the small red release button at the axis of the device. She could feel the tension on the button. The metal device itself was straining to hold the ring impossibly wide. Once again, she held the device up for Dustin to see.

“I’ll never forget what a good, strong young man you were,” she said solemnly. The ring, now wide and open, blazing like bright orange neon in the soft desk light, showed him his fate. His eyes fixated on it. And even though the muscles of his face were frozen and slack and his features did not move, Nancy could read the indescribable fear in his eyes. “Nnuuhhhhhh,” he moaned again over his tongue, which felt so swollen now it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

Nancy glanced behind. 12:14. It was almost time. She lowered the device. Dustin saw her hands and the device vanish behind his rump. He saw her shoulders hunch as she worked behind him. Without touching his hanging bag, she positioned the gapping mouth of the device underneath and brought the cruel square ring up around his dangling fruit. Even pulled so wide, one edge of the ring caught his left nut. Nancy saw the oval egg rise, creating new soft folds in the velvet skin that held it. She giggled the handle of the bander, but the nut still rested on the orange band. Then it tipped to the left, hanging over the rubber. “NNHhhhhhuuuu,” the poor guy moaned. And she knew he felt it too. Gently, she lowered the device until his stones hung down heavy and loose again. Then she brought the device up again. This time both balls cleared the rubber, and she kept pulling it up until the cold steal of the device rested against his underbody. The orange rubber was pulled out into a square around his jewels, which hung down stupidly from his male form, unaware of the danger around them. Nancy gripped the closed handle with both hands, pressing as hard as she could into the underside of her man’s body. At the same time, she rested her index finger on the red release button. She looked over her shoulder, staring intently at the bright tall numbers of Dustin’s digital alarm clock. At that moment, she knew, her sisters were doing the same, all as one, with their own man—their own chosen—laying out in the same position. Feeling the same fears, denying the same truths about what was about to happen to them and their manhood. All across campus, the doomed boys were spending their last minute as men: Dave, Steve, Travis, Jared, Matt, Brandon, another Matt, Robert, Glenn, John, Sam, and on and on. All different shapes, all different sizes, some taller, some stronger, different shades of flesh. Some with bigger balls, some with smaller grapes, some with large hanging hoses, some with shorter little pokers. But all with bags of balls between their legs, sacs with two oval eggs, so sensitive a small touch would make their owner’s moan, a hard hit would make them gasp and cry. All those bags of balls, all those manhoods—threatened, doomed. All those men, helpless, reeling, desperate. All about to be neutered.

12:15!

Nancy felt her finger spasm. She had been so intent on this moment that she hadn’t even consciously thought to push the button. He finger just did it. And the felt the device snap as the tiny band of orange rubber, pulled apart so impossibly tight by the metal arms, slammed closed in a 10th of a second.

“Mmmmmuhhhhaaaaaa,” was all the Dustin could muster. It was mostly a whisper, like a lover struggling to hold in the groans from moment of orgasm—muffling them instead into a pillow or his lover’s shoulder. It was a tiny echo of the terror, rage, horror. Dustin felt the immediate bite of the band. And although he didn’t know it, his balls were already doomed. The constriction of the band permanently damaged the cords of his balls so that, even if the band had been removed at once, his sex glands would have died nonetheless. But Dustin’s male brain did not know that, and in that moment, as much as his mind was able to focus on any coherent thought, was to get the band off, to save his manhood, to save his sexual future, to save his identity. In reality, Dustin was lucky. The shot that had numbed his nervous system so he couldn’t move had dimmed the pain of his emasculation. And although the shock of that pain would be with him for the rest of his life, an echo of the worst moment in his life, it was not as bad as a man emasculated with now painkiller.

That thought comforted Nancy. She returned the device to her bag and then examined her handiwork. Dustin’s ball bag was already monstrously distended. She could still see the outline of his individual testicles, but the looked larger than their natural mass. And the color of his sack was an angry shade of crimson-purple. But she didn’t have time to make mental notes. She knew that she needed to leave the dorm room within the hour, long before the shot wore off. She sat in Dustin’s college desk chair and readied her artist’s pad and sketching pencil. For thirty minutes her pencil flew over the crisp white page, making a beautiful, detailed, and accurate portrait of Dustin’s banded and dying bag of balls. She captured the thick musculature of his inner thighs and the gentle curve of his taint. And the tip of his soft dick, the underside with its distinctive “v” formation, as it poked out from under his traumatized scrotum. She captured the entire scene in the simple elegance of pencil gray while her emasculated lover moaned softly in his physical and mental agony.

When she was finished, she signed the work and carefully folded into for keeping. Then she pulled Dustin back up onto his bed, using both hands on each of his heavy legs. He grunted softly as she moved him. And he felt his bag of balls fall against his thigh as she turned him. It was a feeling that was so common to any man, his balls between his legs, touching his thigh, that normally he wouldn’t have noticed. But if felt different now. He didn’t feel his leg on his balls, which is the way his brain registered the feeling, but rather he felt his balls against his leg. And they were cold—impossibly cold.

When Nancy had her lover lying properly in his bed, on his back with his pillow under his head, she pulled the sheets up over him like a mother tucking in her tired son. She killed his sweaty forehead gently. Then she turned and put on her panties and pants. It was time to go. She hadn’t intended to look back. But when the opened the dorm room door and felt the blaze of the hall lights hit her eyes, she turned back and looked at her gelded lover. He was lying in his bed, his hands outside the sheets by his side, his head resting gently on the pillow. But his eyes were open, bright, blazing, staring at the underside of the top bunk’s mattress.

And that was the sight that Dustin’s roommate found when he finally stumbled back to the door room around 5 a.m. He quickly stripped down to his boxer shorts and pulled himself up into the top bunk. Dustin’s eyes stared up as the top bunk’s mattress sank undo the weight of his tired roommate. He no doubt thought that Dustin’s soft moans were an early hangover. Little did he know as he dozed, absently scratching his own balls as they hung heavy under the warm comforter, that his roommate’s manhood was dying.

And Dustin felt his balls die. Every minute of it. With him unable to move. He strained the muscles of his arms, praying that he could at least cup his arching loins. But there was nothing he could do. But just lie there and feel the dull burn between his legs as his gender faded. With every sperm that died—his last un-shot wad—his future sons ceased to be. With every coil of tissue in his precious baby-makers that finally starved for oxygen, another bit of his manhood winked out. And with it, the source of the powerful generator of the mysterious and priceless chemical concoction that made his body, mind, and soul male.

AFTERWARDS

As the castrated college boys slowly roused from the incapacitating effects of the SHOT, the entire campus learned the horror that had transpired. In total, 37 young men lost their balls that night. Three women failed to follow through with their plan. One even went to the police earlier in the night and revealed WEL’s plans but was not believed. On the other hand, five women each sought out another victim that was no originally intended. The lust of the act had overwhelmed them to such a degree that they couldn’t help but find another pair of balls to destroy. One happened to be a high school student visiting his older brother on campus.

All the men lost not only their balls, which were cold and dead by the time the shot wore off enough for them to get help, but their scrotum’s as well. They couldn’t even get false testicles—neuticles—so that they could appear as whole men—physically at least. For all the young college men, their testosterone levels flat lined, and after a few weeks, their last erections and masculine desires faded from their mind. But not their memory. And the knowledge of what each young man had lost—and the fact that they were constantly surrounding of young women and virile men—eventually forced them all to leave school.

As for the women, they were arrested. The community was shocked by their actions and all went to trial. They were convicted, but released pending appeal. By this time five years had passed. And the shock and appetite for revenge had worn off the town and the school. A small core of feminists and women’s studies professors began to take up the women’s cause. They argued in professional papers, on TV, and in court that, while the women’s actions were not appropriate, their motivation was understandable. And their statement, while distasteful in practice, had intellectual interest. The pleas of the castrated males, now mere shells of their former selves—some didn’t even appearing for shame—and their fathers and friends didn’t get much traction against these high sounding arguments. And the women were eventually sentenced to time served.

But the legend of the event never died on the campus. And years later, upperclassmen passed the story on like a fireside ghost story to wide-eyed young freshmen. “One of the guys was castrated in your very dorm room,” they said. “I knew him. He was a senior when I was a freshman. I saw him when he stumbled down the hallway the next morning, sobbing, and begging us for help. I saw his blue, dead nut sack between his legs, cold as ice-cubes. And they say those women might come back, drawn to the very room where they once did the deed, to find another fresh, plump, young sack of balls the kill.” But rarely was this story told to a young man who ACTUALLY lived in the same door room, and sleep in the same bunk bed, where another young man had been emasculated years before. Even to the rambunctious and rowdy college boys, that seemed disrespectful.

And every year, on the anniversary of the infamous event, a copy of the image is anonymously posted on the bulletin board of that floor in that men’s dorm at that college. A beautifully rendered, amazingly detailed pencil drawing of Dustin’s doomed balls hanging between his helpless legs.

THE END.

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