Reflections of the Red-Haired Teen - Part 2

But I still had my secret! So long as I clung to that secret, my manhood was not yet extinguished. My enemies may have torn out my big juicy balls by the roots, ripping and rending my nut sack, roaring, berserk with joy at the destruction of my manhood, but I had beaten them all! I was still a man where it most counted – I could still father children, I could still shove a hot dick up the clutching vagina of my sweet beloved and fill her up with waves of my viscous aromatic semen! I was still a man! I told myself about the secret again and again and again, because it was the only thing between me and madness, my one hope for survival as a man. The other slaves thought I was already mad, what with my muttering to myself as I stared through unseeing glassy eyes, accepting abuse from the other slaves without protest – for a slave deballed was the slave of other slaves, worth less than the piss from a real man’s dick. But I had my secret to keep me whole. Sometimes I chuckled to myself, thinking of it, the other slaves keeping a safe distance from what they thought was a gibbering lunatic unhinged by the horror of his castration.

You see, back before they cut away my balls, back before they made me a slave to settle my father’s debts after the failure of his once rich spice business, I had been secretly engaged to the most desirable girl in all the city. Male eyes followed Carla wherever she went, lusting for the feminine lusciousness that no man had ever tasted. She seemed sweeter than the scent of orchids, looking over her shoulder and laughing silvery merry peals at the packs of moaning lusting young men who followed her down the street like so many zombie dogs in heat, urgent for the shiver of delight as they flooded her plump furry pussy with their scum-wads. She knew how to tease and excite the men, endlessly prolonging the flirtation, making it seem like some gentle girlish game as she wiggled and giggled in her cutest little girly outfits, urging the rutting young bulls into an erotic fury while denying them the slightest release. She held picnics by the lake where she made the young men fetch and flatter, almost speechless with rage and frustration as they saw her hips sway and her swelling buttocks shake the drapes of her thin skirt, like the matador’s cape before the charging bull. Yes, Carla was Society’s perfect virgin, wanted by all, available to none. What could the young bravos do? Some of them drank themselves into a stupor. Some found any excuse for savage fist fights with the other men, beating each other into unconsciousness of their thwarted desire. Some, deeply ashamed, but overwhelmed by the agony of desire too long denied, came together quietly in twos or threes or fours, gathering in sunlit distant orchards or cloistered courtyards to seek release by shyly caressing one another’s swollen and sensitive masculine organs. Visions of Carla’s sugar plum pussy may have danced in their heads, but in their desperate hands these young men stroked and pulled the thick taffy logs of their closest friends. One hand pumped a good friend’s cock while the other, passing between his thighs from behind, fondled and rolled his heavy dangling testicles. It didn’t take long this way for chins to tremble, muscles to tighten, and jaws to hang slack as guttural grunts rose unbidden and creamy fragrant boy-semen geysered through the air. These aggressively hetero young men knew they shouldn’t, but it felt so good, and they had been denied for so long. They couldn’t help it! Young buck companions, used to competing to see who was the toughest or strongest or bravest, to passing time by chasing skirts in the street or talking about how they would nail Carla, found themselves, spent and moaning with satisfaction, hands still softly stroking one another’s big dicks, as they leaned their faces together and looked into each other’s eyes with a new awareness. Who would hold it against them if, just for a moment, their lips touched in a clumsy kiss, shocking in its tenderness? Of course, sometimes they weren’t really friends. Sometimes, a crafty rival like me would seduce another man into homosexual rapture just to keep him from Carla. I knew that a young man was mine once he had gasped his ecstasy as I grinned in his face and gently tickled his convulsing male organs. I could keep that man from ever filling his balls with enough sperm to lie down with Carla. All this was Carla’s doing, and mine, she the queen of virgins, with more testicular trophies than even the Tricutter, and me, her happy accomplice, who stripped the young suitors of their seed, filling buckets with their overflowing male bounty and wringing their young balls dry. Carla and I were ball-breakers supreme. She knew what happened to her young men, how their dream of her ripe roundness and the clinging wet warmth of her cunny made them throw away their own manhood, embracing other men in their despair. The poor young men who suffered this emotional castration never knew that Carla loved power more than penises; that every doomed load I milked from their balls (me, their best buddy!) and that they spent with helpless confused grunts onto the floor tiles made Carla and I dance the castrator’s bloody dance of joy. Oh, she was beautiful and I was clever, and together we trampled the balls of the young men of the city under our feet.

And this very Carla, who had launched a thousand pulsing erections, who had half the young machos of the city moaning sleepless in their beds, had pledged her body to me! Yes, she and I were secretly engaged. At the time, I didn’t think it strange that she kept our engagement secret, even from our families. In public, she wore no engagement ring and treated me the same as any other young buck with yearning organs. But when we were alone, I was the king gorilla pounding his hairy chest in triumph. I knew the time had come for me to flood the delta between Carla’s thighs, my big balls spewing thick rivers of semen again and again until I was satiated. I believed Carla when she said that we were too young to marry. I believed her when she said it would be a shame to stop cutting up the balls of her suitors. Between Carla’s coy curves and my wicked insinuating fingers, all the preening young cocks-men in the city were helplessly spilling their loads in the dust. Their manly pride was humbled as they succumbed to another stud’s caresses. These men were being virtually castrated, and Carla and I celebrated the destruction of their masculinity. Why stop now? I never noticed that the young men whose balls I milked did the same to me, that our loads mingled and our eyes softened as we sighed together. I never noticed that Carla reserved the greatest frustration and humiliation for me. Carla told me she was “an old fashioned girl” who believed in chastity until marriage, and I believed her. Carla said “How I live for the moment that I can take you inside me and make you truly happy.” She would cast down her eyes and say “I’m getting wet just thinking about you.” Then she would lift her skirt and show me her plump furry pubic mound bulging under her tiny fringed pink panties; she would slide a finger into her vagina, crooning “Oh, Jody” in a low vibrant voice. Then she would hold that finger beneath my nose and say “Here Jody, smell this, and taste it too, to remember why you are waiting.” She smiled so sweetly as I suckled her offered finger, I thought she was too innocent to understand how violent my struggle was to hold my desires in check.

Carla started me on “sexual calisthenics.” She said I needed toughening up, or I’d never make it till our virginal wedding day. She made me stand naked at attention while she sank to her knees and brought her mouth close to my bursting organs. Then ever so lightly, her fingers would cup my writhing scrotum, so lightly her little fingers could scarcely be felt. Her other hand would penetrate my thighs and, ever so lightly, one of her fingers would tease the cleft of my buttocks, so lightly her little finger could scarcely be felt. I would tremble, my log quivering near orgasm, and then I would feel her warm breath feathering my penis. I’d throw back my head to moan, but then I’d hear Carla’s voice cutting through the cords of my ecstasy like a castrating blade – “You’d better not do what I think you’re doing Jody, if you know what’s good for you!” I obeyed, damming the flood of my ejaculation and stamping and snorting with furious frustration. Other times, Carla made me wear a jock strap several sizes too small. My big balls bulged out the sides, but my poor penis was caught in a trap too small and tight to allow an erection. That was when Carla swept me away with her slow voluptuous dances, lifting her skirt for only a second at a time, like a curtain raised on a theater of intimate tender thighs and twisting broad hips. Carla showed me how her belly moved in heat. She would turn aside, grinning over her shoulder, and show me the jellying full globes of her buttocks, moving closer until her ripe flesh almost embraced my jock-strapped organ. I groaned and sweated in frenzy, but Carla would cut me with her voice if I so much as moved. Or she might slash my buttocks with a leather belt, screaming “Come! Damn you, come! Aren’t you a man? That tight jock wouldn’t stop a real man!” The belting ended only when I cried like a little boy begging his mommy for forgiveness. Had I ever been a man? Sometimes, Carla would lean out her window and flirt with other men as I stood behind her unseen, trapped in the restraining jock. She would flip up the back of her skirt and let me watch her hips swing while she and my male rivals laughed together about how small I was and how so inadequate a man could never hope lie with her. Her laughter was silver and theirs was bronze, and in their laughter I first knew fear, the same fear I would feel one day at the touch of the Tricutter’s gleaming blade. Once, Carla tied a pair of her used panties around my jutting horn and denied me permission to either achieve release or to lose my erection. I had to stay that way for hours, with her panties tickling my exquisitely sensitive penis. At the end of the day, she gave me the panties wrapped in fancy paper and tied with a pink ribbon, saying “Keep them with you always.”

If I tried to kiss Carla, her fingers would close on my balls like steel talons, and her suddenly hard voice would say “Now Jody, you’re being a naughty little boy. You know how important it is to me to wait until we’re properly married. You’ll just have to learn some self-control, or I’ll fix you so that you won’t be able to bother me, or any other woman, for a long time. Do you understand?” I always gave up when she squeezed so hard that my fear exceeded my pain and made me scream high-pitched girlish screams. During our entire engagement, she never kissed me or hugged me or even held my hand. It was vanity that made me blind. I was so proud to be Carla’s stallion; I would have done anything to keep my dream of being on top. I never saw what was happening until it was too late. Other young studs were just teased. I was chosen to be the victim of a slow cruel castration, an emasculation that surpassed mere flesh to shrivel the balls of my soul. Carla hooked a claw hammer around the sack of my nuts and pulled hard, long before the Tricutter did her work. She chose me because I was a Big Swinging Dick: I won every fight and every race; the women peeked at me and snickered about the size of my hands; and when the nasty young punks got together for circle jerks, my scum-wads shot farther and weighed more than any others.

To be continued.