The Russian Roulette Club

by Allen Baker

There are three things that make the Russian Roulette Club possible: the specialized fuse that is used, the diabolical genius and skill of Dr. Murphy, and the members' addiction to the rush of a masochistic thrill.

When we were forming the group four years ago, the name was the hangup. It was difficult to come up with a name that really describes what we do. While the premise of Russian roulette is the closest to our activity's concept, we do not employ guns nor bullets. But the twin principles of chance and destruction are central to our group.

We meet once a month for the thrill of a lifetime. It is hard to convey the excitement I feel for the entire week leading up to our meetings the last Saturday of each month. I'm lucky to have my own business, for I don't think any boss would put up with my lack of productivity during those days. My head is consumed with the looming event. My head and my crotch. I can hardly keep my hands off myself. My palm constantly rubs the front of my slacks. My fingers explore through the fabric of my pockets. I keep finding my wrist caught under my waistband. It drives me wild.

Of course, before we could even hold the first meeting, we each had to subject ourselves to Dr. Murphy's surgery table. He could have administered anesthesia, but the club's bylaws had ruled that out. So we allowed ourselves to be tightly bound in his stirrups and to the table to avoid accidents caused by involuntary movement. I well remember the day I lay there watching his hands in the mirror above me. Anxiety and eager anticipation had me chomping down on the ball gag as I watched the scalpel approach my scrotum. Flashes roared behind my eyes as he made the first cut. My breathing quickened and my dick went rigid. I watched through watery eyes as he fished out my left nut. In pain, I looked on as he attached a miniature explosive to the testicle and returned it to its pouch. The sutures closed the opening, but left a small metal connector exposed through the skin. The second side went just as smoothly, but the accumulation of pain made it much more agonizing. So much so, that my dick spewed ejaculate over us both when I could no longer delay my orgasm.

Then Dr. Murphy moved on to my cock. Under the top ridge of dickhead, he sliced it open from side to side! Never in my life had I experienced such anguish. He pulled it away and pierced up through to make an opening for the connector just above my piss slit. Then he stuffed the exploding capsule into the meat of my cock end and stitched it closed. For the next two weeks, any attempt my cock made to erect was accompanied by searing pain. I loved it.

Once all of us founding members had been so equipped and had recovered sufficiently, we held our inaugural meeting. That Saturday night was the most exciting night of my entire life. We had all been nervous and paced about Dr. Murphy's living room as we awaited the appointed time. When the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, a sudden hush filled the area. Then with restive smiles, we filed down the basement stairs to Dr. Murphy's basement dungeon. Immediately, we began to strip. And soon, eight naked men sat in the special chairs around the Black Box. The chairs were especially designed and constructed for our club. I've often wondered what the cabinet maker imagined their use to be. I'm sure it wasn't every day that he had call to construct chairs that would lock the occupant's legs and arms in unmovable bondage. With expectant hesitancy, we donned gags, took our places and waited for Dr. Murphy to make his way around the circle, inserting the metal stakes in the back of the chairs that insured our inability to escape. Then he took the menacing fuses and went from man to man, attaching them to the three connectors in each crotch. There was little talking that night. Occasionally there was a nervous snicker as the doctor fingered a guy's equipment, but little else was said.

Each slow-burning fuse was eight feet long and took four minutes to burn. The doctor took the fuses and fed them into the small holes in the side of the box, ignoring the two-inch diameter hole in the top. Four feet of fuse was inside the box and four feet out. No one could see inside the box. When all the fuses had been forced into the box, we were ready. The doctor had a metal hook that he then stuck down the central hole. He used it to stir up the fuses inside. I felt a resonating tingle as they vibrated up to my cock and balls. Slowly he pulled out the hook and a fuse along with it.

Dr. Murphy pulled out a cigarette lighter and flicked it to life. Then he looked to each of us in turn. To a man, we all nodded consent to proceed. He lit the fuse and dropped it back into the box. They are special fuses that could only be lit from the end and burned down through the central core of a clear tube. So there was no danger that it would start others on fire. One, and only one, explosive capsule would be ignited.

And the agonizing wait began. Whose fuse was it? Was it connected to a cock or a ball? Each of us watched the holes where our fuses emerged. For two long minutes the flame burned out of sight. Our eyes flickered from the box to each other's faces. My breathing was ragged and sweat streamed down my face. Suddenly, I wanted out. I struggled in my bonds, as did most of the others. Castration fantasies had been our commonality, but the threat of the reality panicked us all.

The suddenly Carl shrieked into his gag. All eyes went to his fuses. And there we saw the flame. The panic left me, but I had never been more aroused in my life. Dr. Murphy quickly released the hands of the rest of us. But Carl screamed and pleaded. He thrashed his head back and forth. For the next four minutes, every muscle in his body tensed and strained against his constraints. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his chest heaved.

Two minutes is a very long time. Only at the last second did he seem to accept his fate and completely stilled as he watched the last inch of fuse approach his right testicle. Just as it reached the surface of his scrotum, he gave one last lurch and white mancream spouted from his dick. There was a second or two for the flame to reach the buried mechanism, and then it blew.

The sound of a very loud firecracker was accompanied by flying tissue and blood. I was two chairs away and had my legs splattered with his defunct maleness. His scream was long and piercing. His eyes rolled up into his scull and he passed out.

The rest of us had all shot our loads and were reveling in the dual afterglow of orgasm and relief. We had escaped this month and had another thirty days to anticipate the next meeting.

That was four years ago. Not one of the original members is totally intact. I've lost my left ball and the end of my cock. And I can hardly wait for tonight's meeting.