Escapades of A Crazed Pendulum 1

“Let me come,” begged Marcello. His brawny chest, full, round, and tight, was heaving helplessly. His nipples were dark, round, and erect. An adolescent fur covered his overworked muscles. His veins formed a stratagem on his chest and arms. He inhaled deeply. “Sir, please let me.” As he implored again, tears filled his sparkling eyes. Sweat glistened at the tip of the curls of his black hair. Some ran down the dark, brownish skin of his thick neck and flat abdomen. His lips gaped slightly. I looked at his dick. It was seven-inch long. It palpitated with his heartbeats. His foreskin had rolled back on its own as his gland kept expanding. It was purple and luminous. A drop of pearl-like precum graced its tip. I ran my finger around his contracting balls. I could smell his manhood. It was a very specific smell and only a man who was close to his climax would exude it. His smell was different from mine. Mine was always pungent. It was an invasive proof of my testosterone. His had a fresh, vibrant, and clean energy that was specific to a teenager. I rubbed his precum around his gland and at the same time raised his legs at an angle. I then rammed my man’s cock ferociously to attack his prostate. He blasted out three splashes of white and glutinous semen. They landed on my face and chest, whilst a subsequent spurt landed on his. His cock erupted. Gushes of cum spilled from his enlarged piss hole up into the air as I kept attacking his prostate with my relentless cock. He was crying and pleading with his silent groans. He couldn’t stop it, as if he were mesmerized by a spell. “Sir.” It was all he could utter as his body convulsed. “Do you remember your ultimate prize if you behave?” I asked. He nodded while he was still ejaculating. Yes, ejaculating, like a real man. He was my slave but he was a man. I never wanted my slave to be anybody less than a man. It was a man whom I wanted to circumvent, not anything less. I wanted a cum-ridden stallion who would do anything for me. Through subordinating a real man, I was able to remind myself of my true manhood. Marcello suddenly squeezed my balls hard. They had been so ready to cum that my sac had been wrapping them bountifully. They were ripe, brightly red, and were so large that you could see the details of their veins through the baby skin of a mature man’s scrotum. He rolled each of my orbs in his hands. He squeezed them with all his might and he pulled them away from my body as far as they could. “In these orbs there lies the essence of your manhood--the very spirit of your being. You are proud of them and you feel that they are God-gifted. I love them, I savor them, and treasure them, because they give you your masculine physique, your impeccable muscles, your inscrutable erection, and your vitality as a true man. However, one day, I’m going to cut them off while you are fertilizing me, as a prize for my lifelong subordination. I promise, I’ll cut them off without warning you. I’ll cut both of them off!” As he said the word “cut” the third time, he twisted my balls harshly. A shot of pain went up my whole spine, which was married with a sublime pleasure. I blasted my load inside him. I could feel my first spurt shooting up his rectum, deep into his stomach. I gushed out my cum like a broken dam. He milked my balls and twisted them. He flashed a knife in his hand and placed it under my scrotum. He then pressed it earnestly into my skin. Some blood appeared at the edge of the knife. I knew this. I knew very much that these were the last few seconds of my existence as a full man, with my gigantic balls that had been giving me the most treasured pleasure and pride. Yet, my contemptuous slave was going to take them away as his prize. My insolent slave boy would take my most prided manhood as a pair of toys. He twisted my balls more. I broke into a cold sweat as my fear began to build up on me. My cock, as if it had a mind on its own, rammed more recklessly in and out of his rectum. It was accelerating my own castration. He was expecting with utmost excitement to my unmanning. I blasted my loads hopelessly and incessantly. I then collapsed.

Marcello put the knife away and released my balls. They were still sitting in my sac. Another shot of cum flitted out of my piss hole. He gradually shit my still hotly erect ramrod out. As his rectum massaged my cock, I felt like cumming again. Once my cock was out, I climbed on top of his face and rammed it into his mouth. I couldn’t hold it any longer but to flood again into this throat. I then stayed in him. Both of us were breathing hastily after our elated moments. I then gushed out my bladder-full of piss into his throat. He took it all, without a drop. He then licked the blood off the base of my scrotum.

I promised Marcello my balls about three months after our relationship had commenced. “Having you, my very slave, threaten my manhood is a constant reminder of my superiority over you. By negating the essence of my manhood in the most denigrating way, I am reminded of my own masculinity, and the infirmity of this very masculinity that I pride and treasure. It can be taken away, by the most insignificant piece of pussy such as you, by your bare hands or by a flick of a knife.” I whispered into his ears as I tied him up on a cross and fucked him from behind. “Before I do that to you,” said Marcello. “I want you to cut my balls off and turn it into a pussy.” That had been our deal since then.

Sophia was holding my nodding erection as I buried my face between her breasts and told her my promise to Marcello. She was holding my cock right in front of her vagina. Her fluid was gently flowing out of it as she listened to the details of my story. She massaged her vagina in a round soft movement. She then wetted my gland with her fluid. My cock spitted out a burst of precum, which mixed itself with her feminine juice. She then moved her fingers skillfully down to my tight scrotum. She felt each of my orbs with her long and cultivated fingers. I loved the touch of these affable fingers. They were more supple and delicate than a man’s. Through her hand, she communicated her desire for my manhood, an insatiable curiosity about its prowess, an obsession with the seeds that were a vital source of life that desired to rejoin the eggs in her womb. I wanted to fertilize them badly, as a man. It was my job and my power. She was in control of it.

She spent almost fifteen to twenty minutes to talk to my balls with her hands. She massaged them prudently. She sometimes wrapped her warm palm around them, weighing them, and squeezing them lightly. Her hands were telling me how much she appreciated them, how much she wanted them, what a pity that I wanted to offer them to my slave, and how much she wanted to take them with her own hands. I simply closed my eyes and adjusted my breath. I had an inner peace while she manipulated my balls. I was giving them to her as her toys. Her vagina fluid continued to wet my thighs. As an animal instinct, my heartbeats quickened. She gently put another hand of hers on my chest. Under her palm, my heartbeats slowed down. She then caressed slowly and deliberately the hard muscles of my pecs. Her fingers brushed through my hopelessly erect nipples. Her hand communicated to my body. She was shaping my musculature. She traced her hand and felt the burly strength of a man’s body. My manhood and the physical strength that my testosterone gave me excited her. She gently ran her fingers around every piece of my abdominal muscles, even the pieces that were on my sides. She gasped as she felt them. I worked hard for each of them, I whispered in my mind. She then whispered back through her hand, “I understand. I am here to appreciate your work, like an adherent who study her favorite sculptor’s masterpiece.” She then moved to my broad shoulders. She felt the breadth of them. She rubbed my deltoids. She then traced her fingers down to my triceps and biceps. She squeezed them. Every piece of muscle was so tight and immaculate. She then pressed her breasts against my chest and held me there. She inhaled the pervasive smell that my male hormones exuded. I felt the contours of her soft breasts. They were small but artfully shaped. I inhaled her smell—the feminine smell that I could never find in my slave or any other man. Suddenly, her body convulsed. She raised her head a little and closed her eyes. She groaned mournfully and pleasurably. A flood of her vaginal fluid came out and showered my genital. She rubbed it around my pubic hair. She inhaled again, and more fluid came out of her. She then used her wet hand to gently stroke my penis. By now, I have forgotten its existence. I was hopelessly erect, but in my mind, it had become amorphous. She cautiously inserted it into her vagina. We were both very calm and peaceful. She guided me, with her hand and body, so that my cock would be exciting her clitoris as I gradually maneuvered myself on top of her. She grabbed my balls tightly and she squeezed the base of my cock and closed off my ejaculation tube. Without a word, she instructed me to move my penis in and out of her vagina in a rhythm that was exalted and peaceful. Her mouth then gaped with a silent groan. I ejaculated inside me. There was not a drop of cum spilling out from my manhood. I simply swallowed every bit of seed with my own ejaculating organ. My brain sensed a sated bliss.

“Do you want to cum?” she whispered after we had rested for a while. “I mean, to let it out?” Without a word, she stuck her finger into my ass and massaged my prostate. Once again, her graceful finger massaged my prostate mercilessly. I was moaning like there was no tomorrow. She knew that I was begging her to touch my cock; but I knew that it would ruin everything if she did. I almost wanted to beg her to stop. My erection wilted; but simultaneously, a sea of cum simply gushed out from my soft penis. My prostate simply released my cum furiously in its own will, and soon, my whole body was covered with my own semen.

“Your seeds, half-Asian and half-Latin, are traveling within me around the world.” Francois used to say that when we made love in his attic room on the third floor of a seedy hotel in Paris. My grandfather came from a Chinese family in Cuba who married a Cuban woman who gave birth to my father. Francois used to lock my arms behind my back. I was only sixteen back then. My body was very lean and exceptionally defined. My long hair covered half of my face. I always had, and still have, a skin tone that looks like a mild tan. Francois was about thirty. He would press his whole body against my back and escorted me to his filthy mirror. He demanded me to look into my bright black eyes in the mirror. He would then hump me from behind while he would circle his fingers around my nipples. “I want to fuck this wild animal.” He spoke as he groaned. My cock would grow hard and it would throb in his hand. He would weigh it and squeeze it. “You wouldn’t have this eight inch thick juicy fucker if you were only Chinese. I hate your fucking exotic look, son.” Francois was full of hate. He hated Asians but he would only fuck Asian boys. He hated women and called them “cunts” and “cheap whores,” while he would always finish our sessions by jerking off while he would describe how much he would love to fuck a woman endlessly.

My first experience with a fellow boy was in my British boarding school. I was in a shower with my Brazilian boyfriend, Jon, who had a six-feet, muscular and hirsute physique. Jon eyed me as Ed, a Chinese soccer player, walked into the shower. Ed soaped himself and massaged his big balls. His cock grew to a 12-inch ramrod. It was long and vibrant. It nodded almost painfully for attention. Jon and I pressed Ed to the corner and gave him a memorable blow-job. Next day, the maids found the whole floor was flooded because Ed’s cum and ours coated the surface of the duct. Ed’s nine-inch cock was thick and covered with strong and healthy veins. Jon and I both sucked Ed’s balls and Ed simply came with vengeance without touching his own massive dick. Francois wasn’t right. My first Chinese boy had a fucker three times bigger than his limp dick.

I let Francois rambled. I then felt his cum flooding my ass. That slimy cum coated my whole rectum and made me want to puke. He stayed within me and said, “my Asian-Latin slut, cut off my balls so that I can’t make any more French babies.” I would squeeze his balls hard. He would look at me with his begging eyes. He was so goddman filthy. I would then force him to suck my big balls while I would jerk off on his face.

I met Francois at Garde de Lyons the very first day when I arrived at Paris. I walked off the train with a crowd of Venetians. I hadn’t got a centime in my pocket. I spent my last lire in a gay hovel called The Temple in Venice. It was a man’s club converted from an abandoned synagogue, faithfully sacrilegious. You needed to get there through a maze after midnight. Its black door was not even numbered. You’d knock, and the bouncer would open a little slot at the door and checked you out. You were supposed to unzip your 501 and take out your hardon for an instant interview. If you pass, you can hand him a 2000 lire bill and fuck until dawn. There were gelding ceremonies every Monday. Some masters would bring their slaves to The Temple. There would be an altar in the middle of the club. An orgy would go on until midnight and the masters would then geld their slaves with some Crowleyite rituals.

Anyway, while I was at the station, I made a phone call back to London. Jon, in his sleepy voice, perhaps with a cock still in his mouth, asked me if I’d need some money in Paris. I told him not to worry. I’d get by. As I spoke, Francois smiled at me at a telephone booth across mine. He pulled up his jeans and showed me the shape of his fat cock. I got off the phone and walked up to him. He pushed me to a dark corner. It was still before dawn, and nobody was in the station beside the lady who worked in the sleepy little tabac. The Venetian passengers had pretty much left the station. He pulled off my jeans. He gasped at my bouncing cock and sucked my giant balls relentlessly. I pulled his hair and pushed his head against my crotch. I didn’t fuck him. He simply gripped my balls with his teeth. My gland jutted up from its foreskin and I could feel the cool air brushing it as it bounced up and down in front of his face. I longed for a touch, and I knew that a touch would be enough for me to explode. Without any warning, he stuck his dry finger up my ass and forced it into my rectum. He kept rolling his tongue around my balls. I then realized that his mouth was coated with mint and his finger was coated with menthol. I felt a burning fire in my groin and in my mind. I was begging for a blasting release that he was denying me by not touching my cock. He massaged my prostate efficiently, and a stream of precum dripped off from the slit of my cock. My eight-inch manhood drooled like a hopeless child that needed his absolute attention. The prostate massage was too much for me to handle, and I began to shoot beyond my control. My viscid semen covered his whole face and his hair, and his mint-coated mouth continued to milk my balls. I was struggling for breath. He then took out a penknife and aimed that at the base of my balls while I was still cumming. He wiped some cum off his face and swiftly wrapped my cock with his lubricated hand. I was lubricated by my own cum. My man’s seeds were now serving as a vaginal fluid. They were once my proud seeds and now a mere lube for my instant pleasure, like a tube of KY. Yes, he finally stroke my raging penis like there was no tomorrow. I felt the menthol on his palm and the hot and cool sensation burnt me both physically and mentally. I had to come. I couldn’t think of anything but to let all my cum out. He bit hardly into my sac and twisted my balls with vengeance. He was glaring at me. “Leave them to me,” said his eyes. “Leave your balls to me as you cum. It’s going to be your last cum and I want you to remember it. Your manhood is going to be cut off by my little 2-franc penknife. I want you to spill your seeds and waste them in my palm at this dark, forgotten corner of the train station. I want you to flush out your seeds so that you would remember how good it feels after your balls are drained. Leave them to me, kid. Leave your beautiful big balls to me.” As if I didn’t care about his craving for my balls, and as if I were eager to be cut, I started to pump his hand as he was stroking me. I could feel the pleasure and my urge with every part of my man’s meat. It had never been so hard, so bloated, and so full of life. I groaned loudly and my last seeds splashed out and hit the wall behind him. He surely did press his knife against my burning balls while he tightened his grip with his teeth. I could almost feel the blood that had begun to ooze out from the base of my cock. His grip was so tight that I began to feel my seminal ducts splitting. I felt my balls exposed beyond the thin skin of my scrotum. Oh yes, he was cutting me alright and I felt every part of it. Before I finished cumming, he let go of my cock and balls; but he kept pointing his knife against my balls, which, to my surprise, were still there.

“Jerk off,” he commanded. “Finish up by yourself. I want to see a man jerking off to tears. He must finish what a man must finish every time he is ejaculating. It’s his animal instinct. You feel it, don’t you? You must cum, don’t you?” He smirked. “Then, I’ll cut off your balls after you’re done. You’re going to empty your own balls for your own castration. I’m not going to help you with the rest. It’s your animal instinct that forces you to give up your manhood.”

The burning feeling at my groin was irresistible. I realized that the burning sensation didn’t come from either mint or menthol. What on his hands and in his mouth were doses of some aphrodisiac. It was now making it impossible for me to stop desiring for releases. He was right. Like a horny beast, I instinctively kept jerking off. I came again. This time, it was like a stream of white fluid drooling down my cock. He smirked at me. “Go on.” He was damn right. I needed to go on. I kept jerking off repeatedly and it seemed like I still had cum trapped in my balls incessantly. I began to grow tired and frustrated. I began to get soft. I almost wanted to weep. I was young then, and I wasn’t going to give in. My insistence amused him. With my soft dick, I came another five times. I kept jerking myself after that; but I truly couldn’t cum anymore.

“Twelve times to be exact,” said he. “Are you ready?” I was too tired to say anything. He spit on my cock and jerked it himself. Surprisingly, it grew hard again and within a few minutes, he induced a small load of clear fluid. I began to feel pain in my groin; but the burning feeling was still there, and I felt like I could keep going for another twelve times. As I came, he pressed his knife against my balls and was ready to cut them off.

“Hold on,” I implored. “I can still do it.”

He glared at me in amazement. I jerked myself off again and I came at ease. I was surprised that I could continue. Nonetheless, he dropped his knife and released me. He then ran away.

I picked up the knife that almost took my manhood. I tasted the blood that had stained its blade, freshly oozed out from my scrotum. As I pulled up my jeans, I realized that he had slipped a pile of cash and a piece of paper with his address on it. In the first three weeks, Francois paid for my hotels and my visits to Le Bureau, a club where I met Konstantine, a masculine giant whose balls I would eventually had the pleasure of taking, and whose wife I would have the pleasure to satisfy, right in front of him, during and after his own castration.