Retribution

Queers-fucking queers. I hate them. One of them ruined my life. I was married-had a good job, and a son-a son that I loved. I lost it all-all because of a queer.

He was a guy that I knew at work. I didn’t know that he was queer; I just thought he was a nice guy; I thought that he was my friend. One night, after work-we’d been working late-we stopped at a bar for a drink. One drink became several; both of us became drunk. I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but I do remember that he kept touching me-kept putting his arm around my shoulder-kept touching my leg. I remember having a hard-on, but it must have been the alcohol that was causing it.

Somehow we ended up in a hotel room-in the same bed. I remember that he was lying on top of me-kissing me. I was too drunk not to return his kisses. Then, we were naked. He had my legs spread apart. I remember that he spit on his hand-then rubbed it on my asshole, moistening it, lubricating it for what he did next-I was too drunk to resist-he raped me; he stuck his cock into my ass.

While he fucked me-my cock became really hard; it began throbbing; I had to do something about it; it wasn’t because I liked getting fucked; it wasn’t because I was queer-I’m not; but, I had to beat off. As he was fucking me, I was pumping my cock. I think we both came at the same time. It was the most intense orgasm that I’ve ever had-but I guess that was because of the pressure his cock was exerting on my prostate; it certainly wasn’t because I was enjoying it. We might have done more. I might have even fucked him-but, at some time, I passed out-and everything that happened after my first orgasm is a blur.

I woke up the next morning-in bed-next to him; he still slept. Cum had dried-was matted, in the hair of my stomach. I was hung over. Watching him there, softly snoring, lying in the wreck we’d made of the bed, among wrinkled, semen stained, sheets, I remembered what he’d done-remembered that he’d raped me. I was furious; the God damned queer had fucked me-had actually fucked me in the ass. I remember thinking, “I’ll fix him. He’ll never rape anyone else.”

I had to look around for my pants-finding them, crumpled on the floor, next to the bed. I always carried a pocket knife-a Swiss army knife. Opening it, I walked around to his side of the bed, leaned over-grabbed his cock.

He moaned slightly-but didn’t awake-until-I sliced off his cock. Then, with a scream, he sat up on the bed, both hands searching his crotch-shock evident in his face-shock from the wound, from which blood was gushing-shock that his hands couldn’t find his cock-the cock I held in my hand.

He was a pitiful sight-a bloody gash where his cock used to be. When I’d sliced off his cock, I’d also opened up the front of his scrotum. His balls, blood stained, slipped out of their sack when he stood up from the bed, trying to grab his cock out of my hand. Pushing him back down on the bed, and saying, “You won’t need those any longer.” I grabbed his nuts-sliced them off as well. His scream-I’ll never forget that scream-was piercing. I hit him to shut him up-over and over I hit him.

Grabbing my clothes, I quickly dressed, but, by then, someone was already pounding on the door. Hearing a key in the lock, I quickly pulled open the door, jerking the hotel maid off balance-then, brushing by her, quickly ran down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the street. By the time I got home, the cops were already there. It seems that I’d used my credit card to pay for the room.

It was a messy trial. The papers were full of it, with headlines such as, “Man Castrates Gay Lover.” From the way they told it, I was also gay.

Fifteen years-fifteen-fucking years-I got-sentenced to prison for fifteen-fucking years. He didn’t even die. Fifteen-fucking years for cutting off a queer’s cock and balls. Hell, I should have gotten a reward. There should be a bounty on queer’s balls.

My wife divorced me. Hell, she didn’t even come to my trial-never came to visit me in jail. After I’d been in prison for a year, she wrote me-to tell me that she was getting married-told me that her new husband would adopt my son-MY SON-that he would take her new husband’s name-that she hoped my son would forget me-that, using a marking pen, she had blotted out my face in everyone of our family pictures. Pulling out my wallet, I looked at the picture I had there-the only picture I had of my son-one of him and me together. Taken shortly before the queer had ruined my life, he had been six years-old at the time. I never heard another word from my wife-never heard from my son. For fifteen-fucking years, I heard nothing.

Oh, I had my punks while I was in prison. I’m a good looking guy-and I kept myself in shape, exercising and working out with weights-but that didn’t mean that I was queer. Since there weren’t any women in prison, everyone fucked the punks. Then I was released-after fifteen-fucking years, I was released. I wanted revenge-revenge on all queers, for what one had done to me.

Upon my release, I got a room in a cheap hotel-and got a shitty, demeaning, job, but, being an ex con, I couldn’t find anything else. They, the drab, bleak, room, and the shitty job fed my anger-my hate. I started going to gay bars-looking for my first victim-someone, who, with his cock-with his balls-would pay me back for all that I had lost-a good job, my wife, fifteen-fucking years, but most of all-my son, whom I would probably never see again.

I tried, but failed to pick up several different guys. Like I said before, I’m good looking-but there must have been something about my manner that frightened them off. Then in one bar, a kid-handsome, almost pretty, sat down next to me. He looked young, but had to be twenty-one, or have fake ID, to be in the bar. He wanted money. He was not only a queer, but also a fucking whore. Well, I’d pay him all right, but he, with his cock-with his balls-would pay me back-pay me back for all I’d lost. We left, going to his small apartment, which was nearby.

A hundred bucks he wanted-shit, a hundred bucks-but, I paid him. I could always take it back afterward. Reaching over, he rubbed my crotch-through my pants. I was hard. He probably thought it was because he turned me on; but, I knew why I was hard-it was because of what I intended to do.

Unzipping my pants and taking out my cock, he stroked it with his hand, pulling my foreskin-I was uncircumcised-over over its head; then, kneeling down, he took it into his mouth. I came-pumping my spunk into his mouth. After he swallowed it, looking up at me, he smiled, a drop of cum at the corner of his mouth. I became hard again-almost as soon as he had finished. He pulled me down on the bed; then, after removing my shoes, pulled off my pants; motioning for me to raise my arms, he pulled my T Shirt over my head. I lay, naked on the bed, while he removed his clothes.

He was a slender kid, not muscular as I was. He, evidently, had never worked out with weights. Except for a fine ring of hair around each of his tits, he was hairless. He apparently plucked the hair from his under his arms, from around his cock-even from his balls. I thought about my son-how his body had been equally hairless. For some reason-some reason I couldn’t understand, it turned me on.

Lying down on top of me, he kissed me, while grinding his cock into mine. I returned his kisses. I wasn’t yet ready-to take his balls. Then he spit on his hand. Although I knew what was to come, I felt, somehow, powerless to stop it. It was as if he, using some kind of spell, held me enthrall. Raising my legs, he rubbed the spit onto my asshole, moistening it-preparing it for what was to come; then-slowly-he began pushing the head of his cock-a cock about seven inches long-against the entrance to my hole, each thrust a little deeper into my ass, until, my hole, almost greedily, opened, swallowing the head of his cock. After a couple of more thrusts, it was completely in my ass, his bare crotch pounding into my butt. I could feel his cock, deep into my ass, rubbing against my prostate. I wanted to grab my cock-it was pulsating-throbbing, but both my arms were ridged at my side, my hands clutching the sheet on the bed. Before long-we came-both of us, he, into my ass, while my cum erupted onto my stomach-gobs-streams-of cum-more cum than I had ever before ejected. I thought that it would never stop. For a moment I was transported elsewhere-outside of my body.

Exhausted, he slumped forward over my body, his face next to mine-his hot breath in my ear. For a while, exhausted-drained-I held him; then, as the aftereffects of my climax faded, I remembered why I was there. Turning over on my side, I rolled him off me-onto his back. Looking up at me, he smiled-right before I hit him, striking him about the face, pummeling him until he was unconscious.

I tied him up, spread-eagled on the bed-gagged him, one of his socks thrust into his mouth, a strip of pillowcase holding it on. I wanted him to be conscious when he lost his cock-his balls. I wanted him to know why I was taking them.

Splashing water on his face until he woke up, I waited until I knew he was fully conscious; then I told him why I was there.

“You fucking queer,” I said. “I’m going to cut off your cock and your balls. You won’t ever fuck anyone else-and, do you know why?”

Wide eyed, he shook his head, whimpering behind his gag.

“A queer like you cost me my life-cost me everything that I had-cost me my son.”

Grabbing my pants, I pulled out my wallet-pulled out the worn, creased picture of my son. I showed it to him. “This is what he cost me. The only person I ever loved.”

His eyes, even wider, he tried to speak, but with the sock stuffed into his mouth, could make no intelligible sound. He shook his head, seemingly pointing it toward the right side of the bed. I figured that he couldn’t stand to look at what was to come.

With a new Swiss army knife-one purchased just for this purpose, I cut off his cock. It was a pale, shrunken, image of its former seven inch self. Then, splitting open his scrotum, I slashed through the cords to each of his balls. I dropped each of them onto his stomach beside his cock. Although tears poured from his eyes, he remained conscious, his head turned toward the right side of the bed. Looking in that direction, I saw nothing, except a night stand beside the bed. Other than a lamp, nothing was on it, except a small picture frame, which had fallen face down onto the stand. Reaching over, I picked it up-turned it over. The picture was a duplicate of the one I’d showed him, except that the face of the man, standing next to the little boy-next to my son-had been blotted out-with a marking pen.