See Them Now!

Just 25 cents!

The Magnificent Member

& Titanic Testes

of the Late Great Pugilist

Angus Johansen

And in smaller letters:

Removed from his living body

in this very establishment

by an outraged populace

for the crimes of rape

against two innocents.

September 18, 1885

The Eights has seen better days. So has Deadwood. When the gold ran out, the populace — outraged or not — followed. Left behind are remnants of its glory days, including this derelict saloon. The only well-kept item on the inventory is the cylinder.

The December wind squalls like a bobcat in heat — a frozen bobcat in heat. One chubby whore dozes through the noise in a rocking chair near the potbellied stove. At the bar are a horny cowboy who’s new to town and Samson, the swarthy proprietor of uncertain ethnic origin. The cowboy wants but is reluctant to wake the snoozing girl. Sleepy whores can be surly. Maybe another drink first.

Tall and rangy, Samson is also sharp-eyed. He spies the cowboy haltingly reading the legend on the silk and hooks a forearm around the cylinder. It is heavy. Quietly he sets it on the bar in front of the cowpoke, a short fellow, or maybe just young, with sandy colored hair and gray eyes. The younger man rocks back on his bar stool, not quite ready to be confronted with this mystery. He looks at Samson for a long moment.

“Is it real?”

“Got a quarter?”

“If it ain’t real, I want free beer for the night.”

“Done.”

The quarter passes from one hand to the other. Samson pockets it and reaches under the bar for a taper, which he lights from an oil lamp. Without removing the cover, he inserts the taper into the back of the cylinder just under the dome. There must be an opening the cowboy can’t see. Glowing dots of light appear through the silk. The dome of the device is apparently perforated in some manner. Samson secures something at the rear of the cylinder and blows out the taper.

“You will be amazed, cowboy. I watched a Sioux Indian slice up ol’ Johansen near 20 years ago while most of the camp stood witness. Nowadays, if I didn’t have his leftovers to show folks, everybody would think I was outta my hat.”

He whips off the silk with a flourish.

The dome is also polished silver. It’s pierced with small holes for the air needed to feed three wicks in a clever, shallow oil lamp. The mirror finish of the dome’s underside reflects the lamplight, powerfully illuminating the glass tube that comprises the main part of the cylinder. The tube is filled from top to bottom with a crystal clear liquid. A slightly bent glass rod arcs downward from one point at the height of the cylinder’s curve to the opposite point at the bottom.

Impaled through its urethra and held in place on the rod by its own natural slope is the 19-inch, engorged but amputated penis of a once impossibly well-hung prize fighter. Two bluish-white blobs much bigger than billiard balls dangle by their cords from a small crossbar near the base of the Magnificent Member. Cowboy guesses these are the Titanic Testes.

“That old Sioux medicine man, he knew his stuff. He squeezed all the blood out of Johansen’s meat and pumped it full to bursting with this solution o’ his, same as what’s surroundin’ the specimens now,” Samson explains. “Sealed off the dingus real tight so it looks big as when that cockknocker was pokin’ the townsladies right up there on that stage.”

“Man’s part can’t be that big,” the cowboy argues, eyes agoggle.

With one finger, Samson taps the glass, which is etched with graduated marks for each inch of the long, fat dick.

“Near as pink as the day it was struck off.”

The cowboy peers hard at the strongly veined shaft and bulging purple head. If it’s not real, somewhere there’s a genuine artist of the macabre waiting to be discovered. But an organ that large would require a truly stalwart champion from which to hang. The bowlegged little fellow imagines how it would feel to have Johansen’s johnson protruding from between his legs. A man would swagger with a package like that. Other men might hate him for it.

“Bet them girls he raped was sore the day after.”

“For a week, more like,” Samson says. “Only thing is — and I don’t tell too many folks this ’cuz their mama still lives here — them girls weren’t raped. Not really. Oh, they pretended he was visitin’ horrors on their delicate flesh, but every manjack in the saloon knew them twins was wantin’ what he gave ‘em. Hell, he buttfucked one so good she squirted pussy juice halfway to that table there. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Heard some women could do it, but I never see’d it until that day and haven’t since.”

“Do tell,” says the cowboy. “That happened right here in this place? Everybody watchin’?”

“Damn straight,” Samson avers. “You think we’d have let it go on if’n them girls was really bein’ ravished? You think he’d dun it in front of God and everone if it was really rape?”

With all the talk of rape and squirting pussies and masculine mutilation, the chubby whore grows more appealing to the cowboy, but his curiousity is aroused too.

“What happened then? I mean, from the beginning.”

*******

In his day, Angus “The Giant” Johansen talked the talk and walked the walk of the world’s greatest heavyweight, Samson explained. Based out of Boston, the fighter had traveled the world, knocking out opponent after opponent. In exhibition matches, he often battled two or even three men — and won.

The pugilist was also the greatest cocksman of the Victorian era. He was celebrated, often publicly among the more vulgar folk, for the size of his genitals and his skill at using them to please women. A master showman, Johansen was known to supplement his boxing income by entering stables and comparing his length and thickness against those of stallions. Anyone who wanted to watch had to pay a fee.

The real show, of course, was the petite blonde whore with the hourglass figure who would suck the boxer’s hanging hose to hardness and then astonishingly jack the horse to the achievement of its own competitive erection. A truly beautiful girl cheerfully performing such obscenities was as much a draw as Johansen’s prodigious bone and balls. If the crowd threw enough coins into the whore’s bodice, the boxer obliged everyone with a full demonstration of his stamina and her willing perversity.

Once she had been thoroughly fucked in every hole, the hard-nippled little slut would be thrown over Johansen’s shoulder and carried ’round the stable. For 50 cents, a man — or boy — could shove a beer bottle into her cunt and make her moan. The bottles and the giant cock were of a similar diameter, so she was always ready to receive the brew. Men who were familiar with the ploy would slip her a half-full bottle because the cold would make her squeal and the beer would spill out of her gash like a river.

“Girl’s surname was Graham as I recall,” Samson said. “Been awhile. Don’t remember her first name. Came in on a coach the first day ol’ Johansen was here. Dressed more like a lady than a whore. She took one look around and left on the afternoon ride. I wonder if Johansen’s fortunes might have taken a different turn if she had stayed around. Right gorgeous bitch she was, but then Angus could always pick ‘em. That was his trouble.”

A gladiator like Johansen draws females like blood draws sharks. Attach to the gladiator a cock of much renown and the sharks become the daughters of nobility and the wives of the influential. Angus unwisely didn’t worry about discretion. His promoters were connected to New York City’s Tammany Hall, whose Boss Tweed could telegraph orders to the White House. If Angus bragged, who was going to complain about his conquests of a few titled sluts?

Few complained, but quite a number of cuckolded men attempted to avenge their honor. In Europe, especially, the great Johansen was usually just one step ahead of some enraged relative. He had prescience enough to do his philandering after his bouts in the ring, however. That often saved him from capture.

“Only a matter of time what happened here,” Samson said. “Angus never had the sense to keep quiet about who he was doin’. And he was always doin’ the marquessa of this or the princess of that. Them bluebloods don’t take to sharin’ their women with a boxer. They don’t care how famous he is.”

“Was,” the cowboy corrects, assuming the removal of the boxer’s manhood had been fatal. “I’ve never heard of him. How do you know so much?”

“Research, boy. And a lot of folks who knew him have come through here, had a look, told me some stories. They always figured some railroad baron would do for him or an English earl. They were surprised to find out it was a whole town that decided Angus’ dick had gotten too big for his philandering britches.”

“So what brought Mr. Boston Fisticuffs way out here to the territories?”

**********

The city boy in Angus dreamed of roaming the West. Dime novels about the exploits of frontier gunmen wore holes in his back pocket. Wild, lusty women had featured prominently in the dime novels too, and while the fighter was now old enough to understand the truth that writers stretched, he still held out hope for a western adventure, especially now that Europe was all but closed to him as a result of his high class philandering.

Boxing promoters of the day kept a tight rein on their talent. As long as they were still young enough to earn money, they were too valuable to risk on “adventures.” But Johansen’s legendary prowess with the ladies earned him sponsorship from a few highly placed widows and maiden heiresses. Tammany Hall didn’t have to listen — they were just women, after all — but Tweed passed along their wishes to the promoters because you never knew where or when you might need a favor in return. What if the suffragettes really did get the vote someday?

In May of 1885, the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world climbed aboard a train headed West. The first leg of the journey took him to Pittsburgh where one of his sponsors owned a steel mill. There, she had a mold made of his erection and scrotum so they could be cast — not in steel, but in silver. The artisans were women, rare in their professions. They received no money in payment, but it never occurred to them to complain about being shafted. Angus enjoyed the shafting.

After collecting her trophy, the steel mill heiress returned home along with much of the champion’s initial entourage. Johansen continued on his way West with a much reduced group of “friends.”

A widow who had never seen her husband’s stockyards spooned with the boxing stud in a sleeper car through most of the trip to Chicago. Steers and heifers were the most numerous bovines at the yards. Breeding stock destined for western ranches was pastured at picturesque farms outside the Windy City. Angus was rarely bigger than the bulls, but the old broad said he compared favorably. “Size isn’t everything,” she told him with a long-toothed grin at her own wit.

Chicago was as far West as most of the friends wanted to travel. Even Angus’ boxing “manager” abandoned him on the ride to Kansas City. A ravishing young blonde who had been shadowing the handsome athlete from the outset became his open companion at this stage of the journey.

Petite and unfashionably slim, Dashiele Graham had been a 16-year-old New York whore when she met Johansen by way of the concierge at Manhattan’s finest hotel. The up and cumming young fighter had just knocked out an aging former champion, toying with him for seven rounds to give the crowd their money’s worth. He had told the concierge exactly what he wanted to celebrate the victory, and the concierge had recommended “a little Dash” for the evening.

After one night with the high-breasted girl, Angus used up most of this winnings to “buy” her away from her pimp. Since then, the soiled dove had prostituted herself only when it furthered the boxer’s career or dovetailed with one of their promotions of the Johansen johnson.

She began pimping Angus to the East Coast’s elite ladies within a year of their meeting. It was only the first arrangement that was difficult. The beautiful, blue-eyed thing had admitted her profession privately to a New York socialite in the water closet at the Pompeii, a five-star restuarant Angus loved to frequent.

“Aren’t you the lovely child. I see you’re sitting with the gorgeous boxer, dear.”

“Thank you. Yes, we were introduced last year.”

“Do I know your family?”

“No, you wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t admit to knowing them if we were, by chance, acquainted. I’m that sort. Angus just keeps me on his arm for show.”

“I see. So you haven’t any plans, the two of you?”

“Well, boxers aren’t always particular, you know. But Angus’ people — the promoters and their bosses at Tammany Hall, you’ve heard of them, I’m sure — they’re of the impression that Mr. Johansen will be the biggest celebrity that prize fighting has ever raised from its ranks. He couldn’t possibly be connected publicly to an unfortunate like myself.”

“You just play the anonymous mistress, and no one asks.”

“Exactly. And I help him where I can.”

“How so?”

“I make introductions. Discreetly.”

“Indeed.”

After that, Dash was pointed out to the high born and the Industrial Age wealthy by others of their rank. Despite her threatening beauty, she was even tolerated to a point in Society, so long as she served her purpose as go-between. Angus did become the celebrated champion, and the not-so-discreet cocksman. Dash, via her influence over the headstrong hero, became one of the powers behind the man and his accompaniment in the public stables where their complementing debauchery knew no limits.

On the train to Lincoln, the conductor fielded several complaints about the couple. “That woman,” a millener’s wife said, “won’t let anyone sleep with her squealing and her moaning until all hours. I don’t care that he’s this world’s best pugilist from Boston. He must quit the driving of her, if you get my meaning.”

The conductor understood perfectly. He talked with Dash privately for 15 minutes to get her side of the story and left fully satisfied.

After sucking off the trainman, Dash was less than satisfied. Angus’ enormous penis continued to delight her, and his enthusiasm for her had risen as their Western adventure continued, but the accomodations had steadily worsened on the trip westward.

The stagecoach to Yankton was bad enough, but the ride on the lumber wagon into Deadwood convinced Dash her adventure was at an end. When she saw the squalor of the mining camp, she was reminded too much of her childhood in New York’s slums. Nothing would make her submit to that ever again. She begged Angus to send her back to Kansas City.

“But angel, we’re going to pan for gold, play cards with gunslingers, see wild Indians! You don’t want to miss that,” her boxer protested.

She gave him a level look. He aborbed its meaning.

“All right, but if I find a pretty daughter of the pioneers, we may just head West without you.”

“I’m sure you’ll find many pretty daughters ... and rich widows ... and young wives. But you’ll come back to me, Angus Johansen, because you know you need my firm hand and my soft body.”

“Well, maybe,” he laughs.

But the Angus Johansen that came back to her wasn’t the man she left in Deadwood.

*********

In Deadwood, Miss Graham’s thick-dicked boxer samples the hard work of mining, the easy work of seducing women and the pleasures of saloons, especially the Eights and Aces, Deadwood’s showpiece establishment for drinking, dining, gambling and whoring. Angus takes up residence there and strikes up a tender but by no means exclusive romance with the saloon’s top girl.

Chloe is a petite teenager who’s only been at the Eights for 10 months. Her father, an Italian-born acrobat, had dragged their family troupe away from a traveling circus after a dispute with its owner and manager. They were almost beggars when they arrived in Deadwood to pan for gold, a skill at which they failed to excel. After two weeks of near-starvation, slim and lithe little Chloe was presented to Samson in exchange for a stake large enough to get the rest of the family back to the circus. Chloe’s mother, dark-haired and doe-eyed like her daughter, attempted to murder her husband with a knife after he sold the girl to the saloon owner. But the acrobats departed all the same, the father clutching his ribs as he snapped the reins over the backs of his team of two sway-backed horses.

Angus finds her beautiful and pays Samson a handsome sum to have her whenever he wants, which is often but not always. The boxer’s libido needs variety.

Word about Angus Johansen spreads through the mining camp over a night and a morning. Chicago and Kansas City newspapers carry stories of his in-the-ring exploits, and a few well-fucked whores carry tales of his genital giantism downstairs to the bar and thence to rest of populace. Within a few days, a sort of celebrity fever grips the frontier community. Women of all walks of life make their way to the Eights to see the mighty stud who, before long, is pumping the sluttier females unabashedly among the back tables of the saloon. The more interested patrons watch the cocksman at work. The throng grows when a pretty or “respectable” female raises her skirts.

Chloe’s breathtaking figure, comely face and contortionist skills make her a crowd favorite when she mounts the enormous cock of the powerful fighter. She is fucked most often after performing a striptease on the Eights’ stage where she does backflips and handstands atop a small teeter-totter. Samson built it for her when she told him a similar device had been the central prop for her circus act, which she had performed clothed. Learning to shed her clothes while balanced on the teeter-totter had been difficult, but the miners’ appreciation had been worth its weight in gold.

The packed crowds in the Eights’ since Angus arrival force Samson to hire extra men for crowd control. Even church-goers flock to see Johansen, mostly to see his boxing exhibitions rather than his sexual displays. Still, the Rev. James Olsen notices absent pews in his church at Wednesday Bible study and rants about the shame of it on Sunday.

He is the scourge of Deadwood’s whores, having beaten several. Chloe’s nimble feet have helped her escape him twice. She hates him. Samson cannot take revenge on a preacher. The backlash would be too great, even in wild Deadwood.

The reverend’s daughters are typical preacher’s daughters — prim on Sunday, promiscuous every other day of the week. They manage to keep up a proper front for the righteous fraction of Deadwood’s populace. They are known girls among the rest of the community.

One evening after Bible study, they become known to Angus Johansen and become his downfall.

*********

A few hours after the prolonged ravishing of the Olsen twins, Angus lolls in a chair at his favorite table in the center of the Eights’ main room. A blue, white-trimmed warmup robe, hood thrown back, covers his nakedness. The greedy appetite for sex has been sated, but the prize fighter isn’t ready to call it a night. He’s still bragging about making the two teens beg for mercy — and then beg for more.

The story may be wearing a bit thin on the panners and hard rock miners who drink with the celebrity. Normally, Angus would recognize the signs and switch to a different topic, but they had been so perfect, those two girls, so smooth, so soft, so ready to discover the joys of getting fucked.

The fighter also fails to mark the number of patrons who have left Samson’s establishment slowly in twos and threes. Something’s brewing beyond the Eights’ walls. Johansen doesn’t guess, the way Samson has, but he does hear the hubbub in the street as the saloon’s clock chimes midnight.

A slender man in a black, broad brimmed hat crashes through the door followed by a knot of men recently cuckolded by Angus Johansen. Disappeared customers of the Eights and Aces pour in behind them. The man in the black hat by his features can only be the father of the twins, the oft-mentioned Right Reverend Olsen.

The reverend points, oh so dramatically, with a twisted dark wood cane. Angus knows what he will say within a word or two, something like ...

“Take him!”

The boxer’s chair flies backward. He’s on his feet before it hits the floor. One of his fellow midnight drinkers extends a startled hand toward the champ. It’s an innocent gesture, but Angus doesn’t take it as such. He cracks the man’s ear with his fist, and the miners who might have been allies turn on the famous tourist. He spins quickly, but a dozen stone-faced men are filing in from the rear entrance to block his exit.

The boxer begins to pummel the tough populace of Deadwood while he looks for escape. A fifth man goes down before Angus realizes he won’t get free. With so many heads broken, he’s used up a good portion of sympathy already, but charm is the only chance he has left. He throws up his hands and smiles.

“Ho there, friends! Shouldn’t there be someone watchin’ the gate for this exhibition match? We’re already through the first round, and I don’t even know who I’m fighting or why or how I’m getting paid. Samson, you need to start taking up a collection.”

“It’s you who’s going to pay devilspawn,” the Reverend says. “You’re going to pay with that!”

The dramatic pointing has resumed. This time the preacher is indicating the famous Johansen johnson, which in the melee has shaken through the opening of the loosely belted robe. Even flaccid, the swinging pink male part dangles impossibly far below Angus’ groin.

“Look upon it citizens of Deadwood, high and low. God would not have cursed any man with such an abomination. Such an unlikely measure of manhood is not needed for his purposes. This is the Devil’s work. I say there’s a demon between this creature’s legs, and the only reason it’s here is to corrupt our women! We must cut it off and cast it out.”

The small circle created by Angus’ fists collapses on him. No blows fall on the champ, but the arms that wrap him allow none in return. He is borne to the floor, a technical knock out.

********

A skinner’s knife rips through the warmup and the tatters are yanked from the attractive cocksman. Men kneel on his legs, arms and chest. A broad gap is left for the “demon” organs, rolling huge and unrestrained over his belly, thighs and groin during the struggle.

“Boys, you don’t know what you’re doin’ here,” Angus shouts. “You don’t really believe ol’ black hat’s mumbo jumbo, do you? Never heard such nonsense. Never known good men to cut off a fella’s parts just ’cause he pleasured a couple of sluts. You all saw, they didn’t bleed, you know they weren’t virgins. And they came to me! I pushed ‘em away. Frankie, you laughed at the way they came after me.”

The twisted black stick whirs out of the press, causing a few men to jerk their heads back. It slams between the jiggling gonads and punishes the root of the Angus-snake. The Rev. Olsen’s cane puts paid to Angus’ appeal, which had given some men pause as they recalled the night’s events more clearly. Angus tries to double up from the pain even as his massive balls caroom off the walls of their sac. The weight on his limbs won’t allow it. A strangled cry comes from his throat, and for a moment, he seems ready to puke. Thankfully, the nausea subsides. He just pants and groans.

The boxer is hauled to his feet, the fight gone out of him. The drooping dong and slack scrotum are red but not bruised. The preacher did not strike with his full power.

Samson nods to the Bible thumper. They have a deal. The saloon keeper will allow Olsen to take his revenge as long as the dismembered masculinity is delivered to him in a state suitable for profitable display.

The saloon keeper’s macabre scheme for exhibiting Johansen’s freakish genitalia stemmed from a meeting with a traveling Cajun fellow who lived well showing a small menagerie of glass-encased human abnormalities. Exotic animals, stuffed and mounted in attitudes of fierceness supplemented the more grotesque attractions. The champion cock wouldn’t be a menagerie by itself, but it and the mighty balls would surely earn a little extra coin for the Eights.

Samson is already composing the telegram to Chicago where a strange little man at a medical supply company will build almost anything to show off almost anything. The Eights will turn a pretty penny from the sideshow attraction Samson will have made from the champion’s pride and joyjuice makers.

Clem and Calhoun, the two bartenders, roll an enormous wooden barrel from a back room onto the main parlor’s stage. It’s nearly a third full of the cheapest beer the Eights sells. The brand is appropriately called Big Barrel beer. Stood upright, the oaken cask is a foot taller than a heavyweight prize fighter.

A fiftyish Sioux Indian in buckskin shirt and cavalry breeches pads quietly into the parlor after the barrel, two long coils of leather rope in his hands. He’s another part of the deal. Samson has known Kwenimo for years. They were road agents together back in the days before Samson decided to stop riding the outlaw trail. Besides traitor to his people, Kwenimo has been called medicine man and witch. He’ll carve the pugilist proper.

The ropes go around the wrists and ankles of Boston’s best hung stud. They’re cinched tight behind the barrel. Its bow and curve hold his limbs back and thrust his groin out for the best exposure to the crowd and easiest access to the knife.

Still stunned by the impact to his sensitive organs, Angus mumbles incoherent arguments to the crowd of men, but the mob mentality is taking hold. It will be nigh impossible to turn a majority back to reason. Angus’ bragging, his outsider status in Deadwood, and the natural envy of less endowed men weigh against him. He grimaces as the ropes spread eagle his beautifully muscled frame. Joints pop.

The Reverend wants to whip the crowd into a frenzy for the unspeakable acts that are about to take place, but Samson would rather they drink and fondle his whores while the pretense of justice plays out. His exhortations are more familiar to his patrons than the preacher’s. Money, pussy and booze flow. Blood will follow.

The whores have come out of their rooms to see what the excitement’s about. Bright, sweet Chloe, who invested so much hope in Angus and lavished so much attention on his too public privates, is the last to emerge, having been pinned under the ample weight of Hank Marston, a hardware store owner who can pay the premium price demanded for the young girl’s perfect body. She gasps when she sees the boxer’s nude form lashed to the barrel. Her clit tingles as it always does when she’s presented with the sight of his fantastic phallus and tremendous testicles.

The green silk robe she wears billows as she hurries down the stairs. Eight inches apiece of sculpted white thigh flash above her black stockings. She finds her pimp and locks onto his big arm.

“Samson! What are they doing to Angus?” She knows the answer. Instinct explains there can be only one reason to stretch a man out like that, especially a man who hangs like Johansen.

Samson just looks at her. He knows she knows.

“But why? Who? And why aren’t you stopping them? He brings good business to the Eights.”

“Don’t make a fuss, girl. He’s going to keep bringin’ in business. ’Sides, this had to happen sooner or later. If it wasn’t the Reverend getting his pride back for Angus turning the twins into sluts, it’d be some other fella the boxer shamed. Surprised he’s kept his ‘heavyweights’ this long. Ain’t you?”

“Samson! No. I’ve never heard of this bein’ done to anybody ’cept some Sioux got caught out alone and drug into camp. Angus is a white man. And that Kwenimo, what’s he doing? Isn’t he your friend?”

The Indian has rolled out a small trade blanket and begun unpacking a woven basket as if for a picnic. Sharp tools are nested with clay jars of unguents and powders. Needles and wire are partnered with candles and feathers. The centerpiece is a large, clear bowl filled with something like water, but Chloe’s nose tells her that’s not what it is.

Angus gazes on the preparations stupidly. Maybe one of those miners did get in a stunning punch when they took him down. Kwenimo isn’t waiting for the fighter to figure it out. While the crowd drags chairs closer to the stage, the old Sioux pours a yellow powder into a goblet of milky fluid. He shakes it vigorously with his hand over the open neck, then carries it to the woozy boxer.

Pressing it to Angus’ lips only earns him curses. Clem slaps a beefy hand to the condemned man’s forehead, pinning his skull to the barrel staves. Kwenimo forces the jaw open and pours the liquid into Angus’ mouth. The champ sputters and chokes but eventually swallows a good amount of the mixture.

From the front of the Eights a murmur begins. The crowd swirls around a small group of blonde heads. The Reverend has sent his eldest son to bring his daughters so they can witness the elimination of their lover’s manhood. Never a stable apostle of the Lord, old Olsen went half mad when his son told him the depraved fashion in which his beautiful twins gave up their virtue. The camp will speak of them as sluts unless the sordid event can be cast in a new light. A bold-faced lie will be erected in place of Angus’ everready bone.

Despite the truth, despite dozens of witnesses to the contrary, Deadwood will come to accept as Gospel that the Olsen twins were raped.

Properly clothed once more, the twins take their seats in the front row of rough saloon chairs not 10 feet from the spot where the fighter had them squealing with pleasure a few hours ago. When they sit, the boxer’s drooping penis begins to rise as if on cue.

A wave of laughter, much to the girls’ embarassment, rolls around the Eights’ until papa Olsen’s cane smacks the floor. The crowd quiets but not too readily. This is, after all, Deadwood, where there are more saloons than churches, more brothels than schools. The crowd is a curious mix of Olsen’s true believers, jealous husbands, whores and a majority of the just plain curious.

The laughter ended, the twins’ eyes attach to Angus’ growing hardon. They’ve seen it before, but the process is no less fascinating a second time around. For those who are first-time viewers, the reaction is, as always, disbelief.

From completely soft and shrunken at 10 and a half inches, the mammoth trunk stretches lower, still limp looking, to 12 inches. The shaft thickens, the glans swells, and at 14 inches the bloating meat begins to lift away from the support of the cradling balls, although the head still points at the floor. At 16 long inches, the phallus straightens to aim at Kwenimo’s ankles a few feet away. For 17, it rises parallel with the floor. Passing 18 inches, the trademark shallow curve locks into place. Nineteen hardwood inches reach full erection at 45 degrees above the horizontal.

No penis so large has ever existed in all of recorded history. There’s not a scholar among them, but the Deadwooders knows it’s true without anyone making the claim.

“Oh, yummy! Blood sausage!” a whore calls out. “Make it stay like that, Kwen, when you cut him. I’ll keep it for a dildo.” Rough laughter.

Enough men amongst the audience have used the medicine man’s potion to correct the amusing assumption that the twins are responsible for rousing Johansen. Maybe standing in cold creeks all day makes impotence an occupational hazard among the panners for gold. The problem is not uncommon, it seems. Deadwood is indeed an odd place.

Silence now settles over the onlookers. The torturer — that’s what he is, everyone realizes — approaches his victim.

Kwenimo’s knife is small and gleaming. He holds it in just two fingers and a thumb as Angus alternately threatens Tammany Hall’s wrath and pleads for mercy. The men of the camp are used to such protestations, having seen hangings and shootings on a regular basis in the Badlands. They fix their attention on the Sioux’s steel and Johansen’s wood rather than his words. A few of the whores are hard-eyed too, but softer expressions show on a few faces. Surprisingly, the twins are anxious, maybe horrified at what’s about to happen.

The draught of whatever it was that Kwenimo poured down poor Johansen’s throat has the boxer throbbing hard. The enormous ripe plum head of his organ jerks emphatically with each beat of his terrified heart. Angus himself feels the penis straining to burst its incredible limits. He’s never been so stiff. He suspects the thundering erection was caused by the drink, but he doesn’t understand why, if he’s going to be mutilated, his detractors are going to so much trouble.

“Just stop old fella, OK?” he whispers to Kwenimo.

For answer, the Indian smiles and lays the knife edge against Angus’ scrotum just below his pulsing pud. He flattens the wrinkled skin and draws the blade in a quick motion. His victim screams when a two-inch section of bag droops under the gaping cut. Kwenimo holds the massive pouch to one side and cuts again. Again the bag sags. Angus continues yelling, pain and fright etched into his features. Someone stuffs a barely adequate gag into his mouth. The noise is muffled but uninterrupted.

The big nutsack, now bleeding freely, is hauled up and forward against the penis so the Indian can slice at the back, surely, smoothly. The knife is cutting cleanly through the skin and membranes cradling the huge cojones. One of the two spermatic cords becomes visible to much of the crowd. The dark, bloody maw grows until one final cut joins the circle of severed flesh. Last to be severed is the membrane that halves the sac, dividing the testicles. The scrotum has been sliced through. By design, the gonads are still connected and whole.

The bag won’t come off without help, however. A little tug on the scrotum opens a one-inch gap. The nut cords stand out in the lamplight. Angus’ eyes are wide and disbelieving above the gag. Don’t they know who he is? Don’t they know how he’s worshipped for his prowess in the ring and for the record measure of his cock and balls? How can they do this to him?

His chest is heaving. Kwenimo meets his stare, puts down the knife and pinches the skin of the scrotum below each testicle. He drags the sac slowly downward, meeting resistance at first as the cords tighten and lengthen. When the tops of the giant balls come into view, the sack slides more easily. As the bluish-white orbs are half exposed, the bag drools off by itself and flops, open end downward, to hang from the Indian’s fingers. Blood drips.

Angus feels open air on his balls for the first time. The nude sperm makers bump, moved minutely with each beat of blood maintaining the hard-on above. The cords that hold them to their erstwhile owner stretch down nearly six inches when Kwenimo gives the testicles an absent-minded pull. They spring up again once released. Heavy hangers indeed. The running commentary of the saloon patrons compares them to apples, which are too big, to plums, which are too small, and to large apricots, which are just right.

One whore is rubbing her slit through her bloomers. Another pushes her kitty hard against the fist of a bullwhacker who visits her every two weeks on the turnaround from Rapid City. A chair leg scrapes the wooden floor loudly when a storekeeper scoots for a better view of the emasculation. The men beside him glare at the breach of etiquette. Distractions are not well tolerated during Badlands entertainment.

A greasy concoction is smeared on Angus’ circular wound. The blood stops. The empty scrotum is submerged in Kwenimo’s big glass bowl. He fills the bag several times with the liquid and empties it until the contents pour out clear. Each time it is filled, the elastic pouch distends to such dimensions that the crowd oohs and ahhs. It might hold a dozen of Johansen’s apricot fruit if its two chambers were ever packed tight. Expanded to its thinnest measure, the liquid loaded scrotum glows orange when a lamp is placed behind it. The tracery of veins it displays is ghastly.

The Sioux scoops Angus’ bag full once more for the onlookers to marvel at, then lets it float. The eyes of the man who will soon be castrated cycle rapidly from the floating nut pouch to his raw balls and back again. Lashly looks on, clearly sympathetic, as the tortured man’s tortured mind wrestles with the concept of being slowly gelded.

Something new has caught his tormentor’s attention. Kwenimo bends closer to the scrotal wound, parts the bobbling nuts with his hand and probes tentatively at the groin. His calloused digits wiggle briefly then thrust upward into the raw flesh near the back of the cut. The boxer whips his skull forward and back. The rooting around can’t be pleasant, but that’s just what Kwenimo is seeking — the root of the “demonic” prick. He shows the crowd a gap-toothed smile when he seizes it, although few understand what he’s latched onto — until the Indian pulls downward, levering the mighty cock as on a fulcrum to smack against the broad chest.

“Ahhhhhh,” the crowd says in one voice.

For fun, Kwenimo works the root like the handle of a wagon jack, slapping Angus’ torso several times with the boxer’s own rigid meat. The enormous penis appears to wave itself about like an animated sword. The stripped testicles bounce off the Sioux’s agitating fist and his victim’s thighs.

The more debased among the watchers whistle and stomp at the trick, oblivious to the agony it causes the helpless stud. The world’s most celebrated male organ doesn’t return to its former upward angle after this humiliation. The tight ligaments and strong muscles holding it up have been loosened. Still, it lances higher than horizontal. Johansen’s pride has a long way to go before it can be counted destroyed. Its tumescence hasn’t slackened.

The Indian picks up his knife and smiles once more at the boxer whose muscles are bulging on par with his outsized penis. Angus shakes his head wildly as the blade lights on the underside of the twitching manhood. A very shallow cut circles the shaft two-thirds of the way down from the shooting end. Four inches closer to the thick base, the knife encompasses the manflesh again. A lengthwise cut slides along the line of the urethra without damaging the big cum carrying vessel. It links the two circular incisions. Angus and his audience now conceive what the Sioux is about to do to the four-inch section of penis.

Kwenimo loosens the skin with the tip of the knife on one side of the piss tube. When he can grasp it with his gnarled old fingers, he peels the near translucent layer of cock hide slowly higher, stopping at the halfway point to adjust his grip. Even some of the hardened miners are sickened by this. Angus screams through the gag nearly as loudly as before. When the rectangle of skin is torn free, it too floats in the bowl.

“Nuthin’ less than what the horn of the Devil deserves for what he done, an’ you all know it,” the Rev. Olsen says to the faint of heart. “Some of you are lucky you ain’t up there with him for standing by while he took his liberties with my girls. This is their due.”

Nods of agreement are sparse but no one argues against the reverend’s barbaric method of extracting “justice” for his wanton twins.

More layers of skin and tissue are removed carefully from the 4-inch section and dropped into the bowl until finally the urethra and the two thick cylinders of the corpora cavernosa are boldly on display. Amazingly, the surface network of veins and arteries remains intact. Kwenimo has skillfully assured that the gargantuan tool will not fall from its turgid state. What new blood has flowed is again stopped with the grease. The partially dissected penis continues to pulse and twitch as though it hasn’t been mutilated.

A few words in Sioux pass from Kwenimo to Samson who motions little Chloe forward. The pretty young whore is ordered to strip. Samson cuffs her when she hesitates. She disrobes quickly then. Her taut nipples cause comment among the crowd and prompt a few catcalls. For the most part, the room is silent. The girl is shoved toward Kwenimo who grabs her by the wrist and makes her kneel in front of the abused boxer. Her fear is plain.

Chloe’s unresisting hand is guided toward the flayed section of the awesome dick. She closes her eyes as the Indian inserts her index finger behind the urethra and hooks it around the tube. The thick white vessel bows in her grip as Kwenimo draws her finger up and down, freeing the four inches of unprotected piss pipe from its tenuous connection to the cavernosa. At the extreme end of the tube, the glans seems to nod, its opening yanked inward by the pulling. Chloe sobs, nipples jutting incongruously. The violence done to the supremely beautiful organs of her lover both horrifies and excites her.

Samson feigns calm despite his worry over damage to the trophy pole. This is all part of the plan.

The saloonkeeper saw the writing on the wall when the boxer’s spit-polished knob still oozed semen from the final load called forth by the Olsen twins. He knew the mad Reverend would never let this affront stand. The pugilist playboy would be castrated at the least. At worst for the fighter, at best for Samson, the whole package would be removed. For Samson to profit from the parson’s revenge, a full neutering had to be assured.

He had dispatched Clem to find Kwenimo. In Samson’s tiny office, the Indian had promised that his knife would provide a lengthy entertainment without harming the massive genitals beyond the repairs a good taxidermist could effect. The old Sioux was a skilled hand at taxidermy himself, he noted. Samson had smiled an evil outlaw smile.

An exchange of words between saloonkeeper and Indian are translated to trembling Chloe. She shakes her head and is struck again. Obligingly, she opens her eyes, seizes the undamaged section of penis in one hand, and with the other pushes two slim fingers between the hard, tightly joined cavernosa where their fragile covering has been ripped away. She wiggles the tips as they appear on the dorsal side. The naked balls jiggle with the vibrations. Angus’ face has turned the same shade of purple as his cockhead from the agony of the live dissection and the pyschological impact of seeing his proud pole skinned and split.

For sure though, it’s a crowd pleaser. The fact that the organ is remaining bone hard and throbbing throughout amazes everyone except Kwenimo, who knows the power of his potion. The fact that a penis is not one inflatable tube but two side by side (actually three if you count the erectile tissue around the urethra that doesn’t become as intensely hard as the others), amazes the mostly ignorant miners as well. They’re eager for more revelations.

“Move those fingers like you’re jackin’ him,” Samson says. “While you suck.”

Chloe knows better than to balk a third time. Her fingers move haltingly between the once inseperable barrels of bull meat, The urethra is pushed to one side. The mouth that provides the 16-year-old with such a wide smile opens to swallow the engorged glans and a few inches of cock behind it. Amazingly, the tenor of Angus’ muffled vocalizations changes. He thrusts toward the petite prostitute as far as the ropes will allow. The crowd laughs and applauds the cocksman’s unflagging desire for a hot mouth on his fantastic member. Maybe it’s the Indian’s drug driving his lust, but who cares?

Soon, Chloe has all four fingers between the cavernosa of the cock. She is able to close her fist around the right half of the double-barreled splatter gun. The single cavernosum, as thick as a whole penis on any other man, fits comfortably in her grip.

Emotions skitter helter-skelter through Chloe’s mind. Fresh tears come every time she thinks about the cruelty of the preacher, Samson, the Indian and all of Deadwood. How can they do this to a kind and generous man just because his meat is bigger than theirs? That’s what it is, she realizes. They hate him because women love him and because his wonderful cock and balls put theirs to shame.

At the same time, Chloe feels guilty. She’s so wet and her tits are pointing so hard. How many women can say they’ve put their hand through a man’s boner? Or sucked him just before he was castrated with his uncased nuts dangling like Christmas tree ornaments? And all on a stage in front of hundreds of envious men and jealous women? Dubious honors to be sure, but she wants desperately to sneak her left hand off her smooth thigh and rub her clit.

Before she can work up the courage to masturbate in front of the grotesque Reverend Olsen, Clem and Calhoun carry out her teeter-totter. Clem tilts the front end of the board down and fits it between the kneeling girl’s heels and round little butt. Chloe spreads her knees and slides her ass up the silk covered surface, leaning forward to keep her mouth on the champ’s cock. Calhoun pivots the board up as Chloe rotates gracefully on the tender flesh of her inner thighs from a straddling position to belly down. The toned legs sweep backward with perfect toe-point to lay on the board as well. The swollen cockhead never slips from her mouth.

The artful maneuvers lack the jaw-dropping effect of splitting the skinned halves of Johansen’s organ with her fingers, but they impress the Deadwooders anyway. The Reverend forgets to scowl momentarily just as he was about to object to fornication getting in the way of emasculation. The nude grace of the circus-trained whore awes even him. He even applauds once, only once, with the rest of the audience.

Chloe turns to her admirers and licks for a moment instead of sucking, letting them see her shining dark eyes and a revived smile as she laps the hot head of the doomed dick. Just then, Samson reaches between her legs, his middle finger finding her button. Chloe’s body reacts without consulting her brain. The simple touch acts as a trigger and she shoves herself onto Samson’s hand already convulsing with the surprise orgasm. The saloonkeeper pushes her head back onto the boxer’s bone while she writhes for a good 20 seconds, the Eights’ patrons cheering.

When the spasms subside, Chloe buckles down to the real business at mouth. The bartenders tilt the board to match the up angle of the long erection. They nudge the base of the teeter-totter forward a bit. The whore’s whole body begins to slide.

One layer of silk is fitted to the board; it doesn’t move. The loosely draped top layer sticks to the slightly damp skin of the child-like prostitute, but it rides over the first layer with almost no friction.

Chloe rolls her eyes up to look at the champ’s face. Pain is there, and desire. She hopes he’ll forgive what she’s about to do. The first few seconds of bob-sliding on the penis have been assisted by her left hand on the board, tugging and pushing her tiny weight up and down the incline. Now, she releases the board, gives her left nipple a quick, thrilling pinch and puts her hand gracefully in the small of her back. With her fine ankles crossed in the air, it’s obvious that her back-and-forth locomotion is powered only by the right hand still wedged between the barrels of Johansen’s giant prick.

The transition is accomplished smoothly, although the crowd is still astonished when the boxer’s butt is hauled away from the barrel on the whore’s first pull. He grunts deeply. The root of the cock, loosened by Kwenimo’s yanking, now extends toward Chloe, tenting the skin at the base. The sensual mouth of the girl encompasses six inches of dick as the little body slides down the silk covered board.

Chloe keeps her eyes locked on Angus as she begins to deep throat more of the champion cock. When she pushes off, his ass compresses against the barrel staves. His victimized staff shortens as it’s shoved momentarily deeper into his groin. She knows the yanking and shoving hurts him and pleasures him at the same time. And she knows too that if she wasn’t using this brutal technique on her own, Samson would eventually instruct her to do so. Moving herself via her grip on the split organ makes a cruel sort of sense if you’re playing to the crowd, and she must.

It’s not long before Chloe’s oral ride consumes 8 then 10 inches of penis. The thick log distorts her throat, allowing the watchers to track its progress. The whore is enduring her own measure of pain. Sword swallowing is much easier. Samson hasn’t forgotten about her pleasure, however.

The saloonkeeper passes word to the bar patrons that, for a small price, the girl’s sweet cunt can be diddled while she sucks the Magnificent Member of Angus Johansen, the Heavyweight Champion of the World, before the parts are justly carved free of the callow rapist. Samson assures them it’s a moment of historic significance. They don’t want to be left out.

The champ hears the pronouncement about the impending amputation and some of his terror returns. The girl uses all of her skills to redirect his attention to her mouth on his cock. She succeeds as much as can be expected.

She tries not to think how dirty are the rough fingers that begin playing with her baby pussy. She keeps her eyes on Angus and imagines the fingers are from his hands. She begins to come then and remains in a state of almost constant orgasm, diving deeper with each push and pull of the fist trapped between the pinching cavernosa of Angus’ rock hard penis.

Eventually, after many attempts, the young tongue licks at the raw flesh where Kwenimo has peeled Angus’ skin away. She wiggles the exposed urethra with the pink tip and withdraws from the long downward stroke. She gasps, for air and from the climaxes exploding between her legs. On her next impalement, she shows her teeth and pretends to savage the already raw tissues of the cock’s open wound.

Breathe again then down again. This time, Chloe removes her hand from behind her narrow waist to cup the boxer’s big right nut, hanging by its thread. She bounces it, squeezes it, swings it almost gently into its neighbor then strethes the spermatic cord until a strangled howl from Angus makes her stop. Then there’s no more air.

Samson’s hands on her shoulders pull her completely off the dick. He jerks her fingers from between its barrels. The throbbing 19 inches wobble and sway without her guidance. The Reverend thinks Samson’s ready to get on with decocking and castrating the massively endowed Romeo. But no, now the saloonkeeper wants Johansen to penetrate the whore’s dripping cunt.

Clem and Calhoun untie the ropes around Johansen’s ankles and allow him to stand while Chloe jacks the big rod with her small hands. He’s hobbled with a short length of rope immediately. The gagged boxer doesn’t understand what’s happening and neither does the crowd, but both wait expectantly.

The ropes on Angus’ arms are untied from the barrel too, but the ends remain in the hands of the bartenders. He’s given enough slack to flex the strained muscles.

“I’m going to pull that gag off here in a second so you can answer me, rapist,” Samson says. “We’re going to extend some mercy to you — if you can behave. The Reverend wants you castrated and your cock made a trophy and a warning to all who would violate the innocent. He’d rather that happen sooner than later, but the Eights & Aces Saloon and Bordello is a place of entertainment, so justice will be meted out after you’ve had a last go with my best whore. Do you want that last poke?”

The gag is removed. Angus draws a deep breath.

“Listen, Samson, friend, you know what the preacher says ain’t...”

Samson interrupts.

“Cut ‘em off, Kwen.”

The smiling Sioux starts forward, knife gleaming.

“Wait, wait! Please. Yes, Samson, it’s a good deal. I’ll take one last fuck with sweet baby Chloe. That witch’s brew has me so hard nothing seems to distract, so I guess the fix is in. You’re not going to let me out of this. I’ll take her, give you a show, go out shooting.”

“Good, though you might refrain from more speeches.”

Angus nods and staggers forward in his hobbles to grasp Chloe by her unmatured hips. But as their eyes meet, he moves one hand to touch her soft cheek and she raises her back from the board to hold his head, kiss him and whisper apologies that the closest of the spectators hear.

The Olsen twins, touched by the display of affection, seem to wish they could express their regrets as well. Their religion-mad father would never allow it. He’s almost apoplectic now. He hadn’t viewed his agreement with Samson in quite these pornographic terms.

From behind the clutching couple, Kwenimo whips a strip of leather against the tender blue-white testicles. Angus yelps.

“Fuck her, you dumb ox. That was the deal,” Samson threatens.

The boxer moves quickly to comply, making his first thrust clumsy. Chloe yelps in her turn when the giant head of the cock rams between her pussy lips. The beautiful face squeezes into an attitude of hurt that remains for the first few seconds of penetration. Despite her well-oiled cunt and despite the recent days of riding Angus’ dick, the tiny snatch is still tight. She takes a few moments to adjust to the stretching the meaty johnson forces on her.

Spurred by the assault on the teen cunt, a fourth of the men in the crowd have their dicks out now. Three of the Eights’ dozen whores are being fucked openly.

Carrie Kate, the more aggressive of the two Olsen twins feels a tugging on the ladder-back of her chair. She saw Billy Young, the banker’s horny son, standing behind her earlier. She feigns Christian revulsion at the scene before her and pushes her chair back a short distance out of her father’s vision. The boy’s penis, a respectable eight inches, parts her blonde curls and lays along her jaw and neck. She shivers at the hot contact, turns her head to quickly kiss the head of the boy cock then reaches up to play with it. Her father watches the boxer and the whore pump each other, oblivious to his daughter’s lewd behavior just two chairs down. Others in the crowd are not so blind. They point, whisper and grin.

Angus fits as much of the 19-inch hardness into Chloe as he can, but the dark-eyed saloon angel isn’t deep enough to fuck his cock down to the flayed section. When he strikes bottom she flinches, as she always does, and moans with ecstasy because it hurts so good. Her state of constant orgasm returns as the grand bone spreads her vaginal walls again and again.

A miner steps out of the crowd and seizes the head of the young girl. He sticks a fat, uncircumcised dick into her mouth. Samson kicks the drunken lout away before she has to taste his smegma. There’s no way to let anyone face-fuck Chloe without obscuring the crowd’s view, or Samson would have let it continue — for a fee.

Perhaps most entertaining for the crowd at the moment is the sight of Johansen’s vulnerable balls swinging freely between his legs. The harder the stroke, the harder they slap against Chloe’s ass. On the rebound, they swing in a pendulum arc to bounce off Angus’ own clenched butt muscles. On shallower thrusts there’s even room for the nuts to collide with the peeled part of the shaft, doubling the agony of the ecstasy. Once, the left nut flies past the shaft and lands atop the flayed cavernosa at the height of its arc. It lays there for a second, a big, gleaming, dinosaur egg. Chloe brushes it off her lover’s dick with a sweet grin. The crowd responds with applause, laughter, shouts and more hurried jacking.

At a signal from Samson, Clem and Calhoun pull on the ropes attached to Johansen’s wrists. He uncertainly but obediently steps back from the girl, cockhead popping up when it slips wetly from her cunt. Samson yanks the clothes off Deidre, the Eights’ second most favorite whore. Kwenimo fills her hands with a lubricant while Samson speaks low in her ear. She kneels behind Angus and takes the boxer’s big fruit in her hands.

Perhaps the Indian has mixed some sort of narcotic in the slick mixture. Slathering the apricot-sized nuts with the stuff doesn’t seem to cause any pain to the raw flesh, just the opposite. Angus groans with pleasure and reaches back to caress Deidre’s cheek. She coats the jism jewels thickly, holding them out so the crowd can watch. The cords she slicks up too, drawing each between her fingers, thrumming the connections like guitar strings to see them vibrate. Chloe again fondles the head of the bull dick and her own clit during the interlude.

Deidre tells Chloe to hold the penis high as she urges Angus to shuffle forward again. The meat’s not to go back in her cunt. The two bartenders swing around in front of the boxer and the pair of whores, suggesting that they’ll use the ropes to prevent him pulling away from Chloe.

“Turn on your side, sweetie. Put your right foot up on Angus’ chest to give us a good look,” Deidre tells her young friend.

Chloe faces the crowd as the couple’s groins are brought closer together. The extended cockhead is close enough to kiss if she bends a little, so she does. Angus calls her “baby” when she worms the tip of her tongue into his generous piss slit. Sticky pre-cum is inside.

Deidre, still massaging the gigantic balls, picks up the left one as she begins to lubricate Chloe’s anus. The latest sex game becomes clear. Everyone reacts. Chloe lets out a small squeal. Angus yells and tries to jerk back against the ropes, although by this point he’s given up on escaping the pain. He may even be acting. Deidre grins, trying to put a brave face on things. She’s not a sadist, but she is a whore.

Once Chloe’s little butt is opened a bit, Deidre begins to insert the left nut, which bulges and rolls and resists being forced into the tight space. The boxer can’t hold back a scream. It’s far more pressure than the narcotic can blank out. As Deidre learns a workable method, the testicle slowly disappears inside the girl’s ass. Chloe’s tears and the teeth digging into her lip seem to signal three watching men to blow their wads almost simultaneously. A fourth, the banker’s son, creams into Carrie Kate’s hair. The preacher’s daughter laps at the juice.

The second testicle follows the first, causing even more pain to the peeled organs. Deidre pushes them deeper until the spermatic cords are taut and Chloe is slapping at her hands. The red-haired whore feels sorry for the girl and the boxer, but when Chloe clenches her bowels to force the impossibly big things out, Deidre pushes them right back in, Angus yelling all the while.

Both victims decide to endure the malicious game while it lasts. Not much can be done to stop it. They don’t try to conceal expressions of pain. Both are smart enough to know that stoicism will only bring worse attacks and hasten Angus’ dismemberment, but neither lets the pain take over completely. That might annoy the crowd, too, and the crowd must be kept happy. Chloe even plays with the 19-inch cock and sucks when her nerve endings aren’t overloading the pain center of her brain. Finally, Deidre stops inserting and yanking out the fantastic balls.

For her encore, the pretty, red-haired girl clamps her hand around both long cords and draws the fruit behind the boxer’s legs to pull him away from Chloe. She rotates the testicles around each other. The cords begin to braid themselves together. The spinning continues until the neat, tight, alternating lines of the cords begin to double and knot. Angus’ lungs are working fast. When the balls are wrapped so tight they’re hard against his butt, Samson brings a chair and forces the champion to sit on the very edge, the knotted nuts barely visble below his quivering thighs. Deidre flicks her wrist and they unwind, whirling down and around like a child’s toy then twisting up again, then untwisting and back until at last they stop. Someone whistles, shrilly. General chuckling.

But Deidre’s not done. Samson speaks low. Angus must stand now.

She collects the misused cum glands and waggles them by the cords in her fist, slowly at first, causing them to flop ponderously. The shaking accelerates gradually until she’s whipping the balls in short, blurry arcs to beat against her hand, causing the vulnerable fighter to quiver and moan. When his knees start to give way from the abuse, she follows him down, one arm around his middle. Once he can sink no further, she bangs the nuts against the floor. It raises him up again — off his heels. The broad shoulders hunch and the thick leg muscles stand out when she pulls down again to batter the unprotected balls for another round. It’s a contest to see which pain is worse, the stretching of the cords or the pounding of the testicles. The fleshy fruit deform visibly each time they impact the splintered boards. Their delicate covering begins to abrade.

Samson at last tells her, “OK, slut. Let him go.” She puts a contrite kiss on Angus’ cheek and smooths his sweaty hair before rising. It’s a shame, she thinks, to destroy such a beautiful set of male parts. Conversely, controlling such a powerful man after long years of being manhandled by the ungentle clientele of the Eights has been exhilirating.

The saloonkeeper is not half as repentant. He kicks the champion to a standing position and then up to the teeter-totter where Chloe still reclines, holding her mistreated privates with both hands. Kwenimo grabs the great dick ahead of the reaching girl and pulls it over the top of the sawhorse base of the teeter-totter. In his hand is a hammer. The Sioux medicine man shoves a very large nail between the skinned cavernosa and pounds it into the crossbeam below.

Angus barely reacts, the two barrels of hardness are already split and the nail missed the urethra; the steel between them hardly registers as pain. He’s worried all the same. He becomes more worried when Kwenimo bends the top of the nail over with a few well placed hammer blows. Another nail is fixed between the engorged meat and bent the other way. The boxer’s dick can slide forward and back along the four inches of split shaft but otherwise the nails have immobilized it.

Even as hard-nippled Chloe extends a hand to fondle the hugeness once more, Kwenimo drops his hammer and picks up his knife.

“No!” Chloe and Angus shout. “Samson!” they cry next.

Angus begs.

“Samson, friend, you promised I could do her, get off one more time. I haven’t done that yet.”

The crowd agrees, but the Reverend does not.

“Finish it, Samson,” he says. “All this whoring wasn’t part of our agreement, which I and God must remind you was made long before you promised anything to this brute criminal.”

“The preacher has a point, champ,” Samson says, stroking his chin in mock comtemplation. “I did make certain promises prior to granting you this minor mercy.”

Abe Tanner, a garrulous panner known for his love of a good argument, speaks up.

“Ain’t no mercy. We all saw what was done to those twins, and it weren’t rape. I doubt a lesser man could have satisfied those little chippies.”

“LIES!!” The Rev. Olsen rounds on ol’ Tanner, who’s unfazed. “You are damned to Hell if you side with this demon,” he says, shaking his cane at the miner.

“Yeah?” Tanner replies. “Maybe ‘fore you send me there, you explain to me why Billy Young’s jizz is runnin’ down the neck of sweet an’ innocent, just-got-raped Carrie Kate.”

All heads turn to look at the alluring waif. Billy tries to retreat into the center of the crowd. Several arms extend and drive him back to stand behind the guilty girl. Her hands are smearing the splatters of semen in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe away the evidence.

“Father, no. It’s not ... I’ve been crying, you see, after what was done to me...”

“Kinda sticky tears, all globbed up in your hair there, too, missy,” Abe observes dryly. The mood in the saloon, except among the scattering of Bible thumpers and betrayed husbands, swings decidedly in Angus’ favor.

The Reverend can’t believe his eyes. The boy’s cum is shining on her neck and dripping from her curls. His daughter can’t be this much of a slut, to fornicate where anyone could see when he’s risking his reputation to save hers? It can’t be natural, therefore, the answer must be supernatural, which fits nicely with what he’s been saying all along.

“Demons!” he cries. “Demons are possessing our children, our daughters and sons! Our wives! And all brought here by this creature, this so-called champion. The monstrosity between his legs is clear evidence, proof of what I say. Even now it stands forth after punishments that would make a mortal man lose consciousness.”

Angus dares to speak despite the threat of Kwenimo’s knife.

“Balls!” he shouts. “If I’m a demon, shouldn’t flaming jism shoot out of my prick or some other nonsense? Where’s my tail, where’s my horns?” He laughs bravely, considering his cock is nailed to a board. “Well, maybe I’ve got one horn,” he says, looking down at the still stiff rod. “But I oughta have at least two, hadn’t I, if what the preacher says is true?”

The Eights erupts in laughter.

Samson steps forward, arms raised to his patrons as he meets the Reverend’s hate-filled eyes. He has an idea. He wills the preacher to stay silent and succeeds.

“I say ol’ Angus is probably right about the demon aspect of this little argument, and Abe, can’t believe I’m saying this, he may be right too about the goings-on here earlier tonight. But you know and I know, my fellow Deadwooders, that our good looking, studly champion from back East has been cutting a pretty wide swath through the womenfolk in the camp — and not just my whores. He’s got more to answer for than just ruining the twins’ pure reputations.”

Shouts of encouragement come from the handful of cuckolded men whose pretty wives flocked to fuck the big boned boxer.

“So I propose,” the saloonkeeper and whoremaster continues, “that you allow me to keep my promise to Angus, and let him get his nut off, and keep at least part of my promise to the Reverend — and a new promise to the husbands of Deadwood — by allowing Kwenimo to TAKE a nut off. Angus can keep the other. What do you say?”

Assent comes so fast and from so many corners of the Eights, Angus doesn’t have time to appeal for a lesser sentence. Everyone but Chloe and the champ have judged the one-ball proposal an acceptable compromise and good reason for more entertainment. Nobody appears ready to answer the question of whether the boxer’s remaining testicle will be able to survive without a scrotum to contain it.

“Well there’s only one hole you haven’t fucked on little Chloe,” Samson says to Angus while the cute teen begins again to lick and nibble at the oversized glans. “Here’s your last chance to blow both balls, champ.

“But before you do, Kwenimo would like to provide you with a sort of apology, a special potion of his that will make you fire off more joyjuice than you ever have in your life.”

“That’s a mighty nice offer, Samson, but I don’t...”

“No, no, I insist. Kwenimo?”

Nailed down as he is and still roped to the bartenders, Angus is helpless to resist the “apology.” The Sioux approaches with a huge hypodermic needle, although no one in Deadwood has seen such an instrument. He grabs one nut and pulls it out behind the defenseless stud as Deidre did before. The crowd leans forward. The long needle pierces the testicle. Angus winces. Kwenimo depresses the plunger, filling the giant gonad with the mysterious potion.

A fiery warmth begins to burn in the left nut. It’s not unpleasant, and the suffering from Deidre’s pounding, squeezing and pulling departs on that side. The sensation increases with a second injection through the opposite wall of the ball. The right sperm maker is needled twice in turn, bringing a smile to the boxer’s face. Samson smiles as well. Only Chloe recognizes that it’s his evil smile.

The “potion” swirling into the nooks and crannies of the fighter’s gargantuan orbs contains opium and alcohol — lots and lots of alcohol.

Angus’ comment about flaming jism gave Samson his best idea of the night. While the debate over justice for the boxer was bending toward leniency, Samson had asked Kwenimo if he knew a brew that would in fact generate fiery semen. A practical sort, the Lakota witch had quickly come up with the dope and alcohol mix, but he warned that an ignition source would be needed. And there were no guarantees as to the outcome.

Samson believes flying gobs of burning goo will seal Johansen’s fate beyond any argument even if a few guess the truth. The crowd will demand that the boxer be nullified. Samson bends down to whisper part of his new plan to perky-titted Chloe. He doesn’t explain how it will once again reverse the champ’s revived fortunes.

Kwenimo hands the syringe to the girl and points to Angus’ piss slit. She slips the sharp point cautiously into the thick bone’s urethra and squirts the contents down the tube. The Indian demands two more doses before he’s content and gestures for her to insert the needle fully, even jamming the tapered cone of the syringe into the cum spout. Only once does she nick the inside of the urethra.

After each filling, she drags her thumb firmly along the outside of the big vessel to pump the liquid deep into the recesses of the genitals. She doesn’t understand Kwenimo’s “apology,” but if it will make Angus cum more, she’s eager to help. She loves watching the thick, gooey stuff shoot out of Angus’ big gun.

Deidre is demonstrating her throating technique to Billy Young’s father off to one side of the stage so Chloe must lubricate the giant prick herself before Angus stuffs it in her ass. She applies the goop generously, knowing it will add to the narcotic overload Angus feels. Hopefully, with all of Kwenimo’s doping, the boxer won’t even be aware that the cord has been cut when the time comes.

With praticed moves, Kwenimo unbends the nails and yanks them loose without touching the wounded penis. The heavyweight champ is free to begin buttfucking the tiny whore.

Gently, Angus presses the hot head of his 19-inch cock against her opening. She cries a little before the hurt truly begins just to please the crowd. The pain becomes real when the enormous glans bulls past the sphincter muscle. Small girl, small holes. The boxer keeps one hand on her hip. Chloe covers it with her own, digging her nails in when she needs him to slow down.

They establish a rhythm, the girl wincing, grimacing and yelping at intervals as he pushes deeper with each stroke. Some of the suffering is faked, and the pain may in fact be less because of the primitive anesthetic in the lubricant. But the crowd expects a little noise from the girl if only to reinforce their thrill at seeing her so hugely penetrated. She obliges.

Four big racks of candles are trotted out to help light the scene, although some would argue it’s not necessary. One of the blazing stands winds up next to the copulating couple. They can both see the scowling visage of the Right Reverend Olsen over the tops of the flames.

Angus senses a pending climax far sooner than he would like. He tries to relax but the sensation is so good and his organs are so full of jism and opiates that control slips away. The gigantic balls begin to rise as their cords contract. The crowd sees it, and so does Samson. Chloe detects it in the extra swell of the penis assaulting her.

“Shoot where they can see you, baby,” she coos to him. Samson has warned her not to let the fighter blow inside her.

Angus withdraws proudly and lets her take the foot-and-a-half of slick cock in both hands as she rises to a sitting position on her board, slender legs dangling prettily on either side. She puts both thumbs on the ganglia of nerves underneath the glans, urging the gorgeous organ to release its doctored load.

The trembling begins in Angus’ feet and climbs his legs to encompass the entire handsome frame of the long-tormented stud. Casually, Chloe aims his cum cannon at the candles and directly at the hateful preacher. This she does according to instruction. The boxer roars with the power of the first blast.

An incredibly long string of spunk erupts from the penis. The alcohol vapors are potent, stinging Chloe’s eyes. When the jet of altered man juice tickles a candle wick it explodes into flame, illuminating the stunned faces of the crowd. Some of the long squirt burns away as it arcs toward the Reverend, but a jelly-like core lands sizzling across his left cheek and eye, trailing away into the widow’s peak of his hair. He screams, leaping to his feet.

Whirling, fiery ropes of jism burst in rapid succession from Angus’ cock. Four more streak the preacher’s black frock coat as the crowd bolts in every direction away from the howling man. A fifth glob of burning wad sears the other side of the Reverend’s face. Chloe unrepentantly keeps jacking the rest of the powerful load from the fire hose that is Angus Johansen’s 19-inch dick. A dozen spurts more are ignited by the candle flames before the ejaculate begins to fall short of the little fellow who rolls on the floor slapping at the blazing lines of fire crisscrossing his clothing and face. He cries, “Demon! Demon! Demon!” uninterrupted until his son throws a coat over him to smother the seminal flames.

The boy has time to extinguish his father completely in the long moments it takes for Angus to finish his promised orgasm. A puddle of unburned alcohol cum spreads at the base of Chloe’s teeter-totter. The last spasms, though generous, lacked the impetus to cross the candles. The caustic smell of the accelerant fills the air along with that of charred flesh. The goliath organ feels warm and fuzzy with the dope now seeping through the walls of the urethra.

Chloe squeezes unshot drops of alcohol and opium semen from Angus’ penis, dipping her pinky finger into the wide opening to scoop out a last bit of goo so she can taste it. The flavor is like a too-strong drink, but still sweet enough to savor. For brief seconds, her terror loses its place to sexual exploration.

And the joy of seeing that hateful man burning...

Looking past the stage, the girl beams triumphantly at the vanquished preacher. Her expression is not lost on the eldest son, or the daughters who have come tentatively forward to aid the injured man. Chloe observes none of their anger.

Angus wears the same shocked face as most of the Eights’ patrons until he perceives Samson’s clever plan for turning the crowd against him once more. Never able to resist a good fuck, Angus has unwittingly cast himself as the demon that the pastor named him — with a little help.

“You evil, fucking sonofabitch,” he says thickly to Samson through the drug haze.

“Me?” Samson mouths the word mockingly, pointing at his chest.

The saloonkeeper shouts to the bartenders still holding Angus’ ropes.

“Quick, boys! Tie him to the barrel again before he sets the whole place afire! My God, he really is a demon!”

Hobbled, the fighter can’t use his powerful physique to counter the pull on his wrists. He’s dragged yelling back to the barrel and stretched out once more as the forever hard penis finally begins to droop a little. Chloe’s gloating reverts to terror again. She thought they’d won when the mean little man went down.

Once the champ appears to present no further threat, the crowd reassembles in front of the stage and around the mewling preacher who no longer is capable of coherent speech. The camp’s excuse for a doctor comes forward when the Olsen children refuse Kwenimo’s offer of assistance. No heathen will touch their father, especially one who has had such a suspicious role in all that’s gone wrong this evening.

The boy rises, his father’s former strength seemingly transferred to him. He points at Samson.

“I see your hand in this, you purveyor of filth and debauchery. No more deals, no more delays, no more fornication. Finish this devil now or we burn this House of Lies to the ground!”

The angry eyes of the crowd back up the threat. No one understands exactly how Samson has arranged this disaster, but they presume rightly that his hands are dirty. Their looks say if they could prove anything, the whores and their pimp would be burned out before sunrise.

Samson turns to the grinning Kwenimo and jerks his head toward the boxer. The bright little blade is already in his two-finger grip.

“Wait,” Lashly says, not content to be quiet this time. “Her too. The whore. She should be punished with him. She aimed the devil’s thing at papa. And she was glad.”

Chloe’s jaw drops.

“But ... no, Samson told me...”

The slap that takes her across the face makes the doe eyes roll up in her head as she pitches off the board. Samson half catches her, then picks up the limp lovely and deposits her in front of Kwenimo and the boxer. Once again, he whispers in the Indian’s ear.

A pinch of stinking something is held under the girl’s nose. She revives, a bit less alert than before but still afraid. Kwenimo boosts her from the floor to a seat astraddle her teeter-totter directly in front of the bound boxer. The momentarily drooping dong throbs now under a fresh measure of aphrodisiac poured quickly down the already dopey Angus. Clem and Calhoun scoot Chloe’s seat even closer to the condemned tumescence.

The unguided cockhead pushes against her left breast then the Indian slides her over so it rests between the two darling boobs. Even with a four-inch section of skin torn away near its base and even with the balls banging around without a bag to hold them, the beautiful package still thrills her. Two coral colored nipples rise in response.

Kwenimo smiles, he was worried he would have to smear the sensitive titty tips with an irritant to make them stand up. This is better. He hopes to fuck this whore as his reward for his service today. It will be a rare pleasure. He hasn’t savaged any white pussy since raping a settler’s wife and daughter down in Kansas 12 years ago.

Samson warns Chloe not to move no matter what happens. She turns her adorable eyes at him but fails to draw any sympathy with the vulnerable look. She nods. She’s only a whore. What can she do against strong men when even the best fighter in the world has been subdued and humiliated?

“Arch your back,” Samson tells her.

Kwenimo holds up a long loop of thin silver wire. The end next to her taut nipple has been sharpened beyond a fine point. The delicate girl gasps when the fragile skin is pierced by the wire. She struggles not to pull back. Kwenimo smoothly drives the point through the pretty nipple, a tiny amount of blood showing on either side. It’s erect state falters a bit. This is her punishment.

The big, thumping cockhead is threaded next on the wire. The glans is holed close to its middle but not deep enough to intersect the hard cavernosa. Angus has been gagged again, so his only reaction is a tightening around the eyes and a few grunts.

The left nipple is lanced less smoothly, prompting a tiny cry from Chloe. More wire is pulled through all three pieces of erectile tissue so that the ends can be looped behind the girl’s neck. The purpose of the loop isn’t immediately clear.

Lashly steps forward unbidden and tugs at the silver, bringing tears to Chloe’s cheeks. Angus growls at the twin through his gag.

“Like that, whore? Better than burning isn’t it? Or losing an eye? Papa may be blinded and this is all they do to you? I hope it tears them off when they take the demon’s pretty horn from him.”

Clem, who likes Chloe, gently draws the angry Olsen girl away from her less fortunate counterpart. Lashly shrugs him off but sits again.

Below the metal circle joining nipples to glans, Kwenimo has returned his attention to the swinging balls. Sitting crosslegged, he brings the big left nut into full view of the crowd and stretches the cord to the snapping point while Angus’ muffled protests rise in volume and level of alarm. He squeezes just to see the fighter bang his head against the barrel. Destroying this man has been most enjoyable.

He puts the blade edge against the cord close to the body, lightly testing the spring of the flesh. Then he rests his thumb on the other side and cuts. The severed ends jump apart, and the crowd ooohs and ahhhs again. Kwenimo holds the first detached nut high by the cord before lowering it into the big glass bowl beside the scrotum and floating rectangles of cockskin.

Maybe the preacher was right. Maybe such a bulky, bloated ball doesn’t belong on a man. The cut nut appeared huge when it hung from the boxer. It seems truly gigantic now, half-submerged and displacing enough fluid to raise the level in the bowl almost to the point of overflow. Angus is indeed a bull of a man. Half a bull, now.

The testicle is given a quick massage. Milky sperm is stripped out of the wrinkled cord into the clear liquid of the bowl. The hypodermic, cleared of its first fiery mixture, has been loaded with the same preservative surrounding the suspended genital tissues. The spermatic cord is fitted over the longest needle Kwenimo has available before the pickling solution is shot down the tube. Again the ball is kneaded then more juice is fired into the cord.

Chloe closes her eyes rather than look, but look is all Angus can do as the long horror of this night becomes permanent. He is helpless to stop the removal of his masculinity.

The second ball gets placed atop the penis upright, the intact cord curving over and down the side of the testicle then below the base of the penis to loop up and disappear inside Angus’ groin. A torturer’s smile becomes fixed on the Sioux’s face. Instead of snapping the cord, he sets his blade against the bottom of the huge nut, facing the onlookers. Angus jerks and bucks against his restraints, trying to throw his last remaining ball off its unsteady perch as if that might save it from the Lakota knife. Kwenimo waits.

When Angus quiets, the blade is pushed deep, almost to the other side of the nut, effectively splitting the organ as the knife is drawn upward. The effect resembles a butterfly cut for pork chops. As the blue-white fruit is opened, milky goo drains out of the small chambers and fissures inside. The boxer is banging his head again. Blood comes from his mouth where he has bitten himself through the gag.

Chloe weeps, but Lashly and Carrie Kate approach to peer at the organic architecture of the seed pod.

“Demon. We can be sure now,” Carrie Kate says matter-of-factly. “A true man’s seed makers would look more ...”

“Holy?” Lashly suggests.

“Yes, exactly. These are too ugly.”

Kwenimo extends the halved nut minutely towards the girls, gesturing for them to touch the tender tissues. Lashly puts forth her index finger and explores to see the champion’s reaction. He still has full feeling through the big nerve in the spermatic cord. The touch is agony, as much mental as physical. She is playing with his opened organ as if he were less than an animal. Carrie Kate takes in the horror in Angus’ eyes and tenderly pulls her sister’s hand away.

“Let it be done,” she says.

Two golden threads are used to hold the split testicle closed and make it ready for detachment. Kwenimo stretches the cord tight as before, but now he strops the blade along a one-inch length of the connection, wearing away fine layers of flesh. The three swipes necessary to scrape away the main nerve stimulate involuntary spasms in Angus. When only a remnant holds, Kwenimo tugs sharply and the cord snaps. The filleted nut joins its fellow in the bowl.

Chloe’s eyes track it this time, disbelieving. Such things shouldn’t be done, they just shouldn’t, she thinks. She despairs. Her madly-hung lover is now a eunuch, but it’s not enough for Samson or the Indian.

Kwenimo happily dry shaves the pubic hair surrounding Angus’ turgid penis. That done, he probes with his fingers above the base of the shaft, locating the pelvic bone. He digs lower to find the suspensory ligament that holds up the legendary cock. Satisfied, he cuts shallowly from the right edge of the scrotal wound up and over the penis and down the left side. Twice more he follows the same path, trimming away slivers of flesh that will only look ragged when the flesh bone is freed from its moorings. He pauses now and then when the fighter struggles futilely against his bonds. New grease is smeared over the growing wound around the penis to halt the obscuring blood.

At last, the way is clear to the suspensory ligament. It is huge as is everything connected with the bafflingly large organs. Kwenimo has amputated the dicks of other well-endowed men. None so large, but on them the supporting structure was feeble in comparison with the cocks they were required to suspend. The bigger the dicks were, the lower the angle when hard. Kwenimo had always been disappointed by the extremely large ones. Johansen, on the other hand, wears his erection proudly, thrusting up into the air when not encased in mouth, pussy or ass. He has a truly champion cock to go with the champion fists.

Despite the grand nature of the boxer’s ligament, the knife parts it all the same, and the giant penis sags abruptly, jerking on Chloe’s nipples where the fine wire connects her to him. A sharp, short scream comes from her. She doesn’t dare look down to see the damage, but it’s not much. The bulk of the weight was absorbed by the loop around her neck as Kwenimo and Samson intended. Despite Lashly’s demands, they’re not about to damage the earning potential of a fine, young whore.

Eighteen inches lower, the immense dick wavers with much of its raw root revealed after the cutting of its main anchor. Kwenimo pulls at the cock, drawing three inches of bloody root into the candlelight, letting Chloe’s nipples and neck hold up the front end. Deidre has wedged a pillow behind Angus’ head to keep him from breaking his skull. She means it for a kindness, but it only prolongs the boxer’s pain.

Once more, Kwenimo strips the covering from the cock, this time at the newly exposed root. When the cavernosa and urethra are bared, the Indian pauses for the flicker of an eye, then bisects the cum tube with a quick flash of the knife. Men who haven’t shivered before, quaver now as they imagine themselves in the champion’s place.

Thicker wire is selected for the next phase of the mutilation. Silver again because Kwenimo believes in the ceremony of sacrifice. He forces a sharpened end between the dividing cavernosa of the exposed root. The wire is cinched around one barrel of meat. The other engorged tube is accorded its own wire noose. With two pairs of pliers, the Indian begins to tighten the loops, choking off the blood flow and crushing the two cavernosa. When the hardness is compressed to the tearing point, he loops smaller gauge wire behind the first pair and repeats the process. The long dick is staying hard, the wires trapping the blood inside them. Two pencil-thin channels of bottlenecked cock are all that connects the American Casanova to what’s left of his fuckmeat.

A third set of wires are tied loosely to finish the job.

Kwenimo winks at Chloe, a sincere attempt to reassure her. The weight of the penis when it comes off won’t tear her delicate flesh, he means to say. She doesn’t understand.

He spins the wires tight quickly. They’re fine enough to rip easily through the flesh, but that’s not what Kwenimo has in mind. He’ll cut behind them with his knife, then tighten the wires on the suddenly flaccid flesh. Without the pressure of the blood, the cut ends will close instead of rip the tissues beneath the fine wire. If the Sioux is quick enough, Johansen’s severed pole won’t soften a bit.

Samson comes forward and removes the gag from Angus mouth. The boxer breathes heavily but says nothing.

“Any last words before you’re cut, demon?”

“I’ll see you and the fucking heathen in Hell,” he says. His next sentence is lost because Kwenimo chooses that instant to slice through the pinched cavernosa.

Blood sprays from Angus’ groin as both barrels are cut in two. The choked end of the enormous cock swings free of its owner to thud between Chloe’s thighs. He screams and so does she, although she reacts mostly from fright and the shock of having the boxer’s suddenly detached penis hanging from her nipples and neck.

Kwenimo has been inhumanly quick. A miniscule drip of blood flows from the right cavernosa, but no more. The Indian waves a candle under it, searing the flesh together before turning back to stop the fountain of blood coming from the nullified hero.

As if on cue, both Angus and Chloe faint. He loses consciousness from blood loss. She passes out from stress and terror.

Samson catches the girl before she can roll to the floor with the bloody trophy around her neck. He lays her gently back on the board and positions the erect severed manhood carefully on her belly and chest. He calls Deidre over to make a prettier arrangement of the unconscious girl’s hair.

The crowd is already surging forward to see the bloody gap in Angus’ groin and his sundered cock on Chloe’s beautiful pierced bosom. Clem and Calhoun try to hold back the press so Samson can organize a queue and assess a fee for the viewing. There are grumblings but no talk of torching the place, for which Samson counts himself lucky.

Chloe wakes after a dozen men have passed, daring to touch her punctured nipples instead of the real object of their fascination — the unjustly cleaved but justly famous and tremendously oversized penis of Angus Johansen. She starts to rise but Samson threatens her life and forces her to recline with the hot cock growing cold against her.

Angus she can see, head lolling, as Kwenimo unties him from the barrel and lays him out on another board. Most of the bleeding from the gaping wound has been halted. He may survive the shock or die, either one.

He hasn’t much reason to live. Chloe pities him with all her heart. For such a virile male to become less than a man will hurt beyond any physical sensation of pain. No doubt he too will wake on display. Staring faces will watch the horror rush back into his eyes as he sees himself without his huge genitals for the first time. Kwenimo will wait until the crowd clears to sew him up properly.

After the entire line has passed by once, Samson allows the crowd to mill around, approaching the little whore and the big boxer at will. The other whores are commanded to suck and fuck openly if their customers want to dispense with the privacy of upstairs rooms. He orders this mostly to offend the eldest son of the Rev. Olsen, hoping he will leave with his blinded father and his sisters now that the doctor has finished tending the burned preacher. They only depart, however, when Billy Young starts making eye contact with Carrie Kate and nodding toward a dark and unoccupied corner of the saloon.

The crowd gathers close a few minutes later when the Indian unthreads the silver wire from Chloe’s nipples and the head of the clipped cock. He smears her points quickly with an unguent and wraps a clean white bandage about her chest. It’s not strictly necessary, given the small size of the holes in her teats, but Kwenimo has become enamored of the young girl and hopes to win her favor and Samson’s permission to fuck her brains out. The aging warrior is no Angus, but he fancies his prick big enough to make most women walk carefully the morning after.

Freed from her attachment to Angus’ culled bone, Chloe waits for Kwenimo to turn away then she hops off her board, dodges Samson’s grasp and flees up the stairs to her room. Samson lets her go, figuring it’s more trouble than it’s worth to drag her back before the crowd. He decides he’ll fetch her in an hour or so and charge double the normal price for anyone who wants to plug her holes and gnaw the perforated nipples while they’ll still bleed.

A broad table is dragged onto the stage for Kwenimo to initiate his taxidermy on the fantastic fuck rod so recently attached to the former heavyweight champion of the world. Former now because what man could possibly summon the desire to fight when all desire has been hacked from his physique? Deidre doesn’t argue when Kwenimo directs her to wash the champion bone, which is smeared with pussy juice, spit, Angus’ own cum and Kwenimo’s narcotic lubricants.

True to form, Johansen wakes from the shock of nullification sooner than expected. Kwenimo identifies an opportunity and mixes a concoction to clear the fuddled brain of the gelded fighter. He should have stayed senseless for hours with the blood loss and the opiates. No matter. He can watch with dismay as his privates are converted to public curiousities.

Chloe imagined it much as it happens. Recall comes slowly to Angus. The mental fog lifts in a few nodding swings of the head. The transformation, when it begins, is horrible. Full-fledged terror distorts the handsome face, and his howl of despair as his eyes find his dismembered dick swivels every head in the saloon. Kwenimo smiles. He guesses the decocked cocksman will go mad soon.

To business.

The rigid cock is laid on its back, so plug full of blood that it balances on its wide head and wider base, the sweeping arc of the bone allowing nothing of the shaft to touch the table. The silver-tied ends of the trophy meat hang an inch or so over the edge. Clem positions a bucket under the twin cylinders of the corpora cavernosa.

Kwenimo aligns his knife over the narrow gap between the second and third sets of wires and slices a quarter-inch from the exposed root. The fine hoops of silver clink at the bottom of the bucket an eyeblink before the pressurized surge of blood splats over them. The penis wilts quickly, shrinking and drawing in on itself while the fluid drains. The flayed area almost disappears in the accordion bunching of flaccid cock. Where two heartbeats ago 19 inches of solid male wood held itself up, only 10 inches cringes now. The head twists over lazily on its side, too tired to ever punish another pussy. The smaller crowd now gathered round the table are almost saddened by the deflation.

The obnoxious, overweight whore who called for blood sausage earlier in the evening assists the Indian with squeezing more blood from the meat. Rhoda stretches the shrunken sausage to its erect length while Kwenimo limbers up the fat end of a pool cue that Samson keeps for a billy club against rowdy patrons. He flattens the very tip of the wide cockhead under the cue, rolling it up to Rhoda’s fingers just behind the glans. She moves her fingers quickly to pinch the tip of the knob, and Kwenimo crushes down the length of the taut hose. An unexpected amount of blood streams out of the two spouts over the bucket.

Angus vomits, sickened by the sight of his famous penis being prepared for stuffing like the main course at Sunday supper.

Kwenimo squeegees the organ several times more, turning it thrice to make sure the alternating pressures force out all of its natural fluid.

With every last drop of blood pressed out, the mammoth prick shrinks to a pale, withdrawn 8 inches. To Angus’ eyes, his renowned rod looks insignificant. He passes out again.

*********

Three weeks later Angus has suffered through an infection and long fever. An amused assemblage of bar patrons awaits him as he staggers down the stairs toward a waiting stagecoach. Chloe props him up. The Eights’ patrons make a path for the couple that directs them close to the long bar where a purple silk covering glows over a towering glass cylinder. Samson pulls the cover off as Angus passes. The weakened man tries not to see, but his head turns and his eyes travel up and down the fluid-filled tube, noting the perfect pink coloring, the bulging veins, the restored skin, the pendant testicles. With the thick root added to its length, the tremendous cock seems larger and prouder than ever. The swollen, purple head appears to be straining to shoot new globs of rich, creamy cum, but it will not.

Angus lowers his head as the laughter herds him out the door.

*********

“Quite a story,” the cowboy tells Samson. The barkeep blows out the lamps appove the tall cylinder, casting the preserved penis into shadow. He holsters the display case inside its silk covering and replaces it on the shelf behind the bar.

“Worth a quarter?” Samson asks with a smile.

“Worth your balls,” the cowboy says. “How do ya do. My name is Pete Johansen.”

Samson reaches for the sawed-off pool cue he keeps under the bard. The cowboy has been waiting with the reflexes of the young son of a very quick boxer. He thumps Samson between the eyes with the butt of his revolver.

Later, bleeding unchecked from his blank groin, Samson tells Pete where Kwenimo lives.