Do It Yourself

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Do It Yourself

A story by Velveteel.

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It's funny how you can build up a totally false picture of yourself, isn't it?

I used to think I was my own man, in charge of myself, able to choose who I befriended and who I ignored. I was confident. OK, maybe I was never exactly God's gift to the female of the species - I wasn't outstandingly handsome, not tall, not excessively endowed in the groin area. But I was definitely not inadequate, and my self-confidence just carried me through. If I ever decided I wanted to get to know a particular girl, I was always able to find the right chat-up line and start a friendship. Before I left school, age eighteen, I had already taken four female virginities and left my semen in another seven used vaginas.

In the year before I quit school, to take up a career in the burgeoning computer industry, I even managed to persuade one of the more masculine guys in my class to suck me off. And he did it for me more than once. It was an aberration; I wasn't really interested in males. It was just an exercise in control, and I have to admit it was a marvellous, empowering sensation to cum into a male mouth, my fingers stroking his throat as he gulped it down. I never did him any favours in return, and I had no desire to do so. But it was a real treat to see that young guy kneeling before me, servicing me until my cum spurted powerfully down his eager throat, swallowing it all and licking me clean afterwards.

I made a quick fortune as a games programmer. Maybe you remember 'Liverpool Car Thieves'? That was mine. I got a pound fifty for each game that sold, plus my salary with Steeleye Gamesystems. I also had an interest in the 'Sarah Slinger' series (Sarah was my own creation - I loved working on her. She had the best tits that I could re-create from my images of the various girl friends I'd had, augmented by about twenty percent, and the gamers just loved her!). By the time I was twenty-five I had about thirteen million in the bank, and I was living well.

But there was one time when I thought I might have picked up a bug from one of my girl friends. A slight swelling of the scrotum. I didn't want to go to the local hospital and hang about for hours in the waiting-room, so I contacted a little specialist clinic in Cleverton, just a few miles from Hartney Witcombe where I lived. It turned out to be nothing serious - a week on antibiotics was enough to put me right.

But at the clinic I met Donna.

She was a genito-urinary specialist, of course. That was what the clinic did. I remember the commanding way she took hold of me at the first consultation, squeezing my balls rather painfully in her two hands to test for lumps or other indications of impending problems. I remember her eyes drilling into me, searching me, looking for - what?

She was beautiful! God, I wanted her! My natural instincts took over, and I came out with just the right look, just the right phrases that should make her respond to me in the way that I desired. Of course it worked. A week later, after the antibiotics had done their trick, I fucked her for the first time.

Apparently she had wanted me, too.

Much later, I learned that she'd been working to get a second qualification. She'd been reading for a degree in psychology, with special reference to mind control, and she was about a year into her studies when I'd first encountered her. She was in charge of me from the start, and was clever enough not to give me the slightest hint that she was sidestepping my own amateurish (by comparison) efforts to bend her to my will. While I was thinking I'd made a conquest, it was actually Donna who was guiding the initial stages of our relationship.

I had always fought shy of any involvement with a woman who seemed to want marriage, but with Donna it was different. I found mself so in love with her, so eager to please her. Four months later we were married.

I quit my job. I didn't need to work, after all - we had more than enough money to live on from my investments. I'd diversified my portfolio, but I kept a major interest in the computer industry and my wealth was growing at a rate far faster than the cost of living index.

Donna continued with the GU clinic. She wanted to retain her independence, and I understood that. She also continued, still without telling me, with her psychology studies.

It seemed right that I should control the household while Donna worked. We considered the idea of hiring a few staff - a cleaner, perhaps, and maybe a cook - but Donna persuaded me that we'd have a happier life if I took charge and dealt with all these aspects of our married life myself. Soon I became an expert cook, preparing dishes for my Donna that would please her and relax her after a long, arduous day of work at the clinic. I cleaned house, made beds, mowed the lawn, everything.

The first three years of married life with Donna were good. We made love every night, and somehow my erection would last far longer than it had ever done with any of my previous girl friends. But after a few months I noticed one curious thing. When Donna had enjoyed enough orgasms, and wanted to go to sleep, she'd just murmur two words.

"Down, Nash!"

And suddenly my erection would wilt.

Nash wasn't my name. I'm Peter. Donna had a passion for Crosby, Stills and Nash - her record collection included everything they'd produced. One passionate night she'd christened my two balls 'Crosby' and 'Stills' (Stills was the left one), and of course my cock became 'Nash'. And the names stuck.

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Life went on. Donna's days were spent at the clinic; my own were spent at home, cooking, cleaning, maintaining. I took an interest in DIY activities, and set up a workshop in the barn that adjoined my - our - converted farmhouse. I redecorated our bedrooms. One day I mentioned to Donna that the kitchen was a little outdated, so she let me refit it completely. OK, I cheated. We bought ready-made units. But I did all the fitting, realigning the plumbing and the electrical outlets, tiling the walls and so on. I was quite proud of my do-it-yourself achievements, and Donna was full of praise!

I re-fitted the bathroom too. I even built in a special hook for the enema kit that Donna had begun to insist I use.

Ah. Perhaps I should have mentioned that before. Lovemaking between Donna and me had taken a rather curious turn. She had acquired a dildo, a huge one, and she found that her sexual pleasure was heightened if she could thrust it deep into my arse and tweak it as I fucked her. I didn't complain. Well, I did at first, because the intrusion of the huge, black, silicone toy was extemely painful. But I got used to it, and soon it became a habitual part of our lovemaking. When she asked me to submit to regular enemas, to keep that part of me clean, I saw no problem. Soon I was regularly being flushed out with five pints of warm, soapy water.

I was happy with my domesticated life. Nothing spoilt it. I was serving Donna, and that seemed totally right to me. It was almost a relief not to have to assert myself any more.

She was always so very sweet to me. She didn't have to say 'please' or 'thank you' when she needed things - I just understood that was what she meant. So if she muttered "Coffee!" as she passed me in the kitchen after a hard day at the clinic, I would lovingly apply myself to making a cup of coffee for her, hot and strong as she liked it, and take it to her as she sank wearily into her armchair in front of the tv.

One day as I was chopping carrots for a stew, Donna came and stood behind me, watching intently. The knife wasn't cutting well, so I took the sharpening steel from the drawer and passed the knife over if a dozen times or so.

"I really want you to cut your finger!" murmured Donna. I took the knife in my right hand and carefully pressed the blade against the top of my left index finger, between the first and second joints. I didn't have to press hard before a slender, dark red line of blood showed each side of the blade.

"OK, Peter," said Donna. "That's all. Put a plaster on it!" We keep the first aid box in the same drawer as the steel, so it took only a few seconds to cover the wound.

"Why did you want me to do that, Donna?" I asked, puzzled.

"Oh, no reason! Just forget about it!"

And the funny thing is, I did forget about it. For many years. It wasn't until I started writing this account of my life with Donna that the memory came back. I've recently been remembering lots of things...

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A week before our fourth wedding anniversary Donna got a special-delivery letter from her brother Aldo, who was living in Barcelona. When the doorbell rang it was me who opened it. I found myself facing the most gorgeous girlI could remember seeing since the days shortly after I quit school! Slim, black-haired, clad in black motor-bike leathers that accentuated tits so perfect that I couldn't possibly ignore them. No way! She was holding out a clipboard for a signature.

"Ms Donna Wenbury?" she asked, with a smile that penetrated deep into the place in my soul where I'd stored away my old habits, my easy charm, my brimming confidence.

"She's inside," I replied. "Can't I sign?"

And the old habits surged out as if this black-leathered beauty had opened Pandora's Box! I said the right words, smiled the right smiles, memorised the company phone number that I could see on the top-box of her bike. I signed the form and took the letter, aware that the delicious twitchings in my groin could just about be seen through my trousers if she'd been looking that way.

"And you are?"

"Linda!" she replied, as she ran down the steps to her bike.

"Peter!" I responded. She smiled again before she put her helmet back on, and seconds later she was gone.

I closed my soul's equivalent of Pandora's Box. But its contents had already escaped. My mind was already repeating that phone number over and over again, committing it to memory.

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For Donna, the letter meant an immediate flight to Spain. Aldo's wife had suddenly left him, and there were children to be cared for while he concentrated on trying to repair his marriage - or starting a divorce. For me, it signalled the first few days of freedom from my intense (and I had to admit, rather stifling) relationship with Donna.

I took Donna to the airport next morning.

"I really want you to ring me in Barcelona at eleven tonight!" said Donna. I nodded, my mind on other things. After I'd waved goodbye I hurried back to the car, picked up my mobile phone and dialled the number that was etched in my mind.

"Can I speak with Linda?" A pause.

"No, sorry. She's out on a job right now." I explained that Linda had delivered a letter yesterday, and I needed to talk with her about it.

"OK, we'll get her to call you back!"

I gave my number and drove home. Just as I poured myself a coffee the phone rang. It was Linda. I fell into the old routine as easily as slipping on a favourite pair of shoes! We arranged that she'd call round at eight o'clock that evening.

I tidied the living room, set out some glasses and a bottle of wine. I went upstairs to the bedroom, put away all Donna's strewn clothing, and changed the bed-linen. For some reason I set the bedside alarm clock for 11pm, then I went to the bathroom and took an enema. I cleaned the bath and the shower cubicle. I checked that the toilet was clean, and that the seat was down too!

The doorbell rang at ten past eight. An hour later we were upstairs in bed, my rigid (though admittedly uninspiring) flesh boring as deeply as it could between moist fronds of exciting, new labial tissue!

Somehow I'd lost the knack of dominating in sexual situations, but it didn't matter - Linda was perfectly happy to sit astride me, taking control, leading the activities we enjoyed. I let her be my Mistress. It was the most intense evening of fucking and sucking that I'd experienced in years!

I was puzzled when the alarm went off at eleven pm. I hit the button to silence it. Linda was busy under the duvet between my legs, her sweet, stubby nose pressed sensuously against the underside of my rampant rod as she rolled my balls in the mouth that had already swallowed one consignment of my cum. I picked up the bedside phone and keyed in the code for Aldo in Barcelona.

"Yes? Is that you Peter"

"Mmm," I confirmed, as quietly as I could. I was afraid there might be a tremble in my voice if I said much more.

"Are you OK?"

"Mmm!" You bet I was OK!

"What've you been doing today, Peter? What were you doing before you picked up the phone to ring me?"

I hesitated. It hadn't occurred to me to think up an alibi.

"I want to know, Peter!" Still I hesitated.

"I really want to know!"

Linda switched her attention from my balls to my cock. She used her lips to roll back my foreskin, then slid her mouth my over my glans and down the shaft to engulf the entire organ in one swift move, all the time pressing upwards with her tongue. I gasped as the tip of my cock slid past the constriction at the back of her mouth to end up in her throat.

"I'm in bed with Linda!" I said, softly so as not to interrupt what was going on beneath the duvet. Why was I saying this, I wondered.

"WHO THE FUCK'S LINDA?" demanded Donna. "I really want to know!" she added in a quieter tone.

"She delivered Aldo's letter yesterday" I explained. "She's been sucking Crosby and Stills, and right now she's got Nash so far down her throat it's a wonder it's not poking out of her bum!"

For at least two minutes there was silence at the other end of the line. Linda's mouth was gradually stroking me towards my third orgasm of the evening, and I knew my heavy breathing would be audible to her down the line.

"OK!" she said, finally. "Get on with it. Put the phone down and have your fun!" The tone of her voice was like lightbulbs being crushed under bare feet. "Continue as if you expected me to be away from home for a fortnight. Use our bed - it's the only place where you enjoy sex now. Go mad! Think of this as if it were the last time you'd ever have sex. And forget you ever made this phone call!"

I couldn't answer. The orgasm felt as though my entire insides were being drawn out of me through the hole in the tip of my cock!

"I really want all that!" she added through gritted teeth. The phone went dead.

My cock went dead, too. Linda emerged from under the duvet and kissed me, her mouth still dripping with my cum. I didn't object, though usually I can't stand to taste my own cum. Especially during the first few minutes following an orgasm.

"Why are you holding the phone?" she asked, as she flopped off me to lie at my side. I looked at my hand.

"Dunno!" I replied, and put the phone back on its rest. We fell asleep.

Next morning, over coffee, I told Linda we had a clear fortnight before Donna came back. She suggested we go away, take a holiday together somewhere. Jamaica or South America perhaps. I wasn't keen - I wanted to enjoy Linda in the comfort and luxury of my own home, and I told her so. I suggested she take a couple of weeks off work.

"I'll lose pay!" she pointed out. "I get paid per delivery, not per day!"

I went to my desk drawer, took out ten £50 notes, placed them in her hand and curled her fingers over them.

"Deliver to me then!" I said, smiling my best smile. "I'll double that before you go!"

The rest of the morning she was out, sorting things out with her courier boss and pulling together a few things she wanted with her for a fortnight's stay. We lunched together at a restaurant where I wasn't known, then came back to my house where we resumed our lovemaking. For four whole days I fucked her, sucked her, allowing her to guide my cock, my fingers, my tongue into places that gave her pleasure! It gave me a smug feeling of power to know that I could still 'pull'. Sadly, I didn't realise that I was the one who'd been 'pulled'.

We had plenty of prepared meals in the freezer, and plenty of drink in the cellar. We had no need to go out, so I just kept the central heating full on and we remained naked together for the next four days. Linda wanted to make love in pretty well every room in the house, but I felt ill at ease unless I was in the bed that I normally shared with Donna. After that first night we threw off the duvet - it was so hot with the heating turned up - and we fucked naked and uncovered whenever the urge came over us.

We played all sorts of games! There was a slight gap between Linda's front teeth - it didn't look wrong; if anything, it made her even more pretty. She loved kissing me with a mouth full of my cum, squirting it forcefully through that gap and into my mouth as though she was coming on my behalf!

Linda's own wetness flowed freely, and after I'd given her my head I'd often end up with a mouth full of a mixture of her fluids and my saliva. Once she made me hold it all in my mouth while she sucked me to orgasm, then she added all my cum (and a lot of her own saliva) to the cocktail. Holding out two wine glasses, she got me to half-fill each with our blended juices. Then she took a bottle of my finest VSOP cognac, and topped up the glasses to the brim! No, I can't honestly say it was delicious, but we were half-drunk already and we just sat there, side by side on the bed, sipping from our drinks and gazing soppily into each others' eyes like sixteen-year-old lovers! We had nearly a hundred hours of almost-continuous orgy!

Donna came back at about midnight on the fifth day.

Neither of us heard the taxi approach. Linda and I were both enmeshed in the throes of our approaching orgasms. The sound of Donna's key turning in the lock was drowned by Linda's sighs. "Fuck me, Peter!" she insisted. "I want your cock!"

I was too far gone to heed the sounds of danger. I pressed on, determined to fill Linda's cunt once again with my seed.

"GIVE ME YOUR COCK, PETER!" shouted Linda. I thrust, hard and deep. As the sperm shot from the tip of my tool the bedroom door opened.

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Donna closed the door behind her. Linda tried to scramble away from me, towards the pile of clothes she'd left on the floor at the foot of the bed, but Donna just looked hard at her. Resigned to the situation, Linda collapsed back on to me, her cunt - wet with my cum and her juices - wrapped incriminatingly around my still-erect dick. Which left me caught completely red-handed. Or should I say red-cocked?

I felt Donna's eyes drilling into me. Often before she'd treated me to 'that' sort of look, but never with the hateful intensity that I could feel now. Donna shot Linda a disdainful glance, then treated her to a long, intense stare. Linda's eyes glazed over. After a while, Donna bent over and began whispering into her ear. Linda didn't move, except to nod occasionally, responding perhaps to things that Donna was saying to her.

"Down, Nash!" said Donna, a sneer on her face. My erect cock immediately wilted, remnants of cum attempting to escape through the tiny slit at its limp tip. I felt I ought to throw Linda from me, leap from the bed and assert myself, but something in Donna's look inhibited me. I just stayed where I was, spreadeagled on the bed, unmotivated to move. Linda seemed just as immobile as I felt myself - she made no attempt to rise from me even though my cock had shrivelled to a small nub of flesh trapped between my balls and her labia.

"You must be Linda!" hissed Donna. Linda nodded, then buried her face in my neck to hide her deep embarrassment.

"Up, Nash! Up!" commanded Donna. It took about three seconds for my prick to become painfully erect, thrusting itself back into the folds of Linda's vaginal cavity.

"You can both stay like that for a while," announced Donna. "You'll like that, I'm sure! And I really want you to! I have some preparations to make!" She stormed out of the bedroom.

I expected Linda to scramble off me as soon as the door closed, and get her clothes on. But she didn't move.

"For fuck's sake, Linda!" I half-whispered in her ear. "Get off me and go! She's in a foul mood! God knows what she's scheming downstairs! Save yourself!"

Linda raised herself onto her arms, but her swollen, eager cunt remained firmly wrapped around my painfully rampant cock. She burst into tears. "I can't!" she wailed. "I keep trying to lift myself off you, but nothing works! It's as if we're glued together!"

"What did she whisper in your ear?" I asked urgently as sobs wracked her body. I caressed her, trying to calm her down. Eventually she stopped crying, and made another attempt to lift herself from the prick on which she was impaled.

"I don't remember! I honestly don't! What's happening, Peter? Why can't I get off you?"

I shrugged. I didn't know either. When I tried to move my hips and throw her off, it only made my cock harder, stimulating it. It must have had a similar effect on Linda, because soon she was thrusting in erotic unison with my own movements. Bloody hell, I thought, we can't fuck like this while Donna's downstairs plotting her revenge! We just can't!

But we did, and soon we were both quivering to a combined orgasm that left us both exhausted. My cum and Linda's moisture blended into a slippery, creamy mixture that spread over our groins and bellies, lubricating our erogenous areas, slithering down around and between my thighs to join the sweat that already making the bedsheet cold, wet and uncomfortable.

My prick hadn't lost its hardness, nor was I feeling that wondrous state of relaxation that follows a normal male orgasm. I could tell from the puffy, pouting feel of Linda's cunt around my cock that she, too, was still hot and aroused. Without thinking, I made one tiny thrust, and that started everything off again!

I knew what was in Donna's mind. She wanted to drain me! Empty my balls, then force me to cum and cum again in quick succession, leaving no time between orgasms even for new prostate fluid to be created. The second orgasm came almost as quickly as the first, and once again it was simultaneous for us both. For me it was a painful orgasm, producing only two spurts of sperm, but I could tell Linda was enjoying it despite the awful predicament we were in.

After that it was sheer agony. For me first (my cock, continually rampant, was getting very sore) but also for Linda, whose cunt was becoming swollen more from friction than from desire. The orgasms came slower and slower, but something compelled us to continue. I lost count. By the time I heard Donna's feet coming up the stairs again we must have come at least thirteen, maybe fifteen times, neither of us producing any fluid at all for the final half dozen. I looked at the bedside clock as Donna turned the door handle to enter the room. It was 2.35am.

Donna was as naked as Linda and I were. She was holding a riding switch.

"Well!" she said, her hands on her hips. There was something in her eyes that told me she'd been drinking. "Did you both enjoy that?" I couldn't reply - I was exhausted. Linda had collapsed onto my chest, and her head was once again nestling against my neck. I caressed her sleek, black hair. I felt so sorry to have led her into this awful situation, and I just wanted to comfort her.

"Uh!" sneered Donna. "How sweet! Isn't love a wonderful thing, Peter?"

Still I said nothing. She came and whispered something in my ear. I still can't remember what it was she said.

"Yes, Donna!" I declared. "Love's wonderful!" I wasn't sure what I meant. Did I love Donna? Or Linda? Or neither of them? Linda and I were still joined, but love was one of the furthest things from my mind. Mainly I felt fear.

"And Linda! How do YOU feel now? What was it you were shouting just as I came into the bedroom for the first time, twenty or so fucks ago?"

Silence from Linda. I could feel her shuddering with fear.

"Tell me, Linda!" A pause.

"Do it!"

Linda raised her head, and looked directly into Donna's eyes.

"I shouted 'GIVE ME YOUR COCK, PETER!'" she said, not an ounce of emotion in her voice. Oh my God! I suddenly realised what Donna had been whispering into Linda's ear. It was hypnosis! 'Do it!' had become Linda's trigger phrase for instant obedience!

"Well, Linda, you've got it, haven't you? It's there inside you right now! Tell me you want it to be there always!"

Another pause.

"Do it!"

"I want it to be there always, Donna!" replied Linda in the same unemotional voice.

"Excellent. You're going to have your wish! Now, Peter, how about you? Have you enjoyed fucking this slut? I want you to tell me how good it's been to have her fat, protruding labia slapping against Crosby, Stills and Nash! I really want to hear that!"

"It was good, Donna!" I replied. I didn't want to say it - the response was sort of drawn out of me. Some part of my mind, far, far away, recognised that 'I really want' was my own trigger phrase, but I was incapable of defeating it. "It was good!" I repeated. "Nash is still there, hot and hard, and I love the feel of those labia in my groin!"

A sigh from Donna, and a look of wicked triumph on her face, indicated that I'd said the right thing.Or perhaps the sigh of relief was because her trigger phrase was still firmly in place?

"Down, Nash!" she commanded. My cock deflated at once, departing from Linda's hot, swollen hole like an orange pip squeezed between two fingers.

"Get off my husband now, Linda, and stand beside the bed! Do it!"

Linda obeyed. I could see her poor, swollen, inflamed cunt as she lifted herself from me. She must have been feeling very sore.

"You too, Peter!"

The bedsheet, wet and sticky, clung to me as I rose. The aroma of recent sex rose from my moist groin to assail my nostrils in the still, warm air of the bedroom.

"Follow me!" said Donna, turning on her bare heel and leaving the bedroom.

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Donna had spread a green plastic tarpaulin over the floor of the living room. I recognised it - she'd got it from my DIY barn. She'd set up a little table with a selection of my tools too. I felt a little annoyed - I'm fussy about my tools. I never lend them out; I don't like to think of them being misused or abused. I keep a set of second-quality tools that I let Donna use if she ever feels like tackling minor tasks herself. But she'd set out my best tools - the ones I keep sharp, clean and honed.

"Sit over ther for now, Linda," ordered Donna, pointing to a straight-backed chair. "Do it. You can watch while Peter shows us how good he is at the do-it-yourself thing! Peter, I really want you to sit over there."

'There' was one of my little saw-horses, over which she'd spread a thick towel. I sat astride it. She told me to move forward, so that 'Crosby, Stills and Nash' hung down over the end.

The table with my tools on it was at my side. I noticed my favourite kitchen knife was there too, along with the sharpening steel I always used. There was also a bowl of disinfectant. Facing me was a cheval mirror, angled so that I could see my dangling balls and the shrivelled thing that was my limp, abused cock. Linda's chair was sited so that she could see my entire naked body. Donna remained standing, the riding switch still in her right hand.

We were all naked. Donna was aroused - her nipples stood out gross and proud from her breasts, and I could see beads of her cunt juice clinging to the hairs around her vagina. Linda, seated, put her hands in her lap in an attempt to cover part of her nakedness, but Donna warned her to leave everything visible.

"Peter's a do-it yourself expert," announced Donna, looking towards Linda. "We're about to have a demonstration of his expertise. That'll be fun, don't you think?"

Linda, confused and afraid, just nodded nervously.

"Peter," murmured Donna, "I want you to give me Crosby!"

I was confused. It was obvious she meant my right testicle, not one of her LPs or the cover of the one she was playing. I gripped the ball in my scrotum, started to rise and offer it to her, but she sharply ordered me back to my place in front of the cheval mirror.

"I want you to give it to me," she repeated. "I don't just want you to hold it out for me. Give it to me! I really want it! I really do!"

My God, I thought, she's actually asking me - no, telling me - to cut the thing out and give it to her like a piece of dead meat! I couldn't do it! I wouldn't! No fucking way!

She moved close to me. "You have the tools there, Peter," she murmured, looking deep into my eyes. "You'll bleed, but you will feel no pain! Make the incision, take out Crosby, and give it to me! If you need instructions, look on the table!"

She had actually prepared an instruction leaflet! The first words were 'Take a very sharp knife.'!

"I want you to do it, Peter! I really want it!" Donna went over to the record player and pressed buttons. 'Judy Blue Eyes' the first track of her favourite LP, began to play quietly.

I picked up the kitchen knife. I knew it would be sharp, but I tested it with my thumb. This wasn't happening, was it? I'll just put the knife back down, I thought, and take Linda upstairs so she can get dressed and go. But then I saw I had picked up the steel, and was slowly honing the knife to a sharpness that was never necessary for its usual kitchen tasks.

I don't remember reading through the leaflet, but its words kept coming to mind. I watched with horror and disbelief as the knife in my right hand moved slowly down towards my scrotum, and my left hand gripped the skin to pull it tight. I touched the sharp, pointed blade to the skin just below the right testicle and pushed gently. I little bead of blood appeared.

My mind was screaming 'No, No!', but my hand pressed the knife deeper, then angled it to make a vertical incision upwards. Despite the turmoil going on in my brain, my hand was rock steady as it slowly made a five-centimetre slit in the skin of my sac.

Some blood flowed over my hand and onto the green plastic covering the floor. "No pain," Donna had said, and indeed I wasn't aware of any. The real pain was in my mind, as I struggled to regain control and stop the mad thing I was doing to myself. Linda looked as though she was going to faint, but Donna quickly gave her a command to stay alert and watch what I was doing.

I reached into the incision with two fingers, hooked them round my ball, and pulled. It emerged through the bloody slit and hung there, naked and vulnerable like the rest of my body. The tube, and the traceries of tissue and nerves surrounding it, were all that connected it to me.

"Up, Nash!" commanded Donna, interrupting the sequence of actions that her instruction leaflet had specified. My cock was still sore and swollen from the agonising sequence of orgasms with Linda, but it nevertheless obeyed Donna's words and rose once again.

"Ah, that's better," she murmured. "Now we can see Crosby properly! A pretty little thing! Don't you agree, Linda?"

"It's a pretty little thing," Linda mumbled in petrified agreement. A smile of wicked satisfaction appeared on Donna's face.

"Good. Now, Peter, let's have Stills out of his little hideaway, shall we?"

My cock tended to hang - or stand - a little to the left, and it obstructed my view. Donna took it by the tip of its stretched foreskin and pulled it out of the way. A few seconds later Stills had emerged through its own bleeding slit, and both of my precious orbs were slowly drying in the warm night air.

"Good! Put the knife down now, Peter!" said Donna quietly. "Before you move on to the next stage I think we should make sure Crosby and Stills are completely empty! Linda, come over here! I have a little task for you!"

"Oh, no!" sobbed Linda. "I can't! Please don't make me!" She rose from her chair and moved reluctantly towards me.

"It's his last blow job, Linda. Make it a good one! Do it!"

The sounds of 'Judy Blue Eyes' came to an end. Linda clamped her mouth over my cock just as 'Marrakesh Express' started to play, and began to perform her gruesome duty.

"You've got two and a half minutes! Make every second count! Hold those naked balls in your hand! Squeeze them! Pull them! I don't want Peter to have even one wriggling little sperm left in him! Do it! Do it!"

She did. Her lips and tongue followed the exciting rhythm of the song and I found myself writhing in unison with her, eager despite myself to achieve the climax that would rid me of my cum - and, in due course, of my balls. I orgasmed as the final 'All Aboard!' sounded. While the last strains of the music faded away, so did my erection. Linda swallowed the pathetic few drops of ejaculate, not daring (perhaps not even wanting) to let them drip down onto my bare testicles. Her eyes were staring, empty. Donna allowed her to get up off her knees and return to her chair.

The calmer sounds of 'Guinnivere', the next track, softly filled the room.

"It's time to give me Crosby and Stills, Peter. You know I really want them, don't you?"

There was already quite a pool of blood on the tarpaulin, but it didn't seem to be flowing so copiously as it had been. My twice-slashed scrotum had shrivelled up close to my body, and my balls were hanging down beneath it. I desperately wanted to push them back into the protection of that crinkly sac, but instead I watched helplessly as my fingers took a length of thread from the little table beside me.

I tied four tight loops, two around each of the tubes that still connected my balls to my body, about half an inch apart. Then I selected my best pair of wire-cutters and dipped them in the bowl of disinfectant.

I hesitated. I didn't want to do this. My mind was fighting, struggling to overcome the compulsions that I knew Donna had planted in my mind. I looked pleadingly at Donna but she just smiled, her head nodding an almost imperceptible encouragement for me to proceed.

Fighting my own actions every inch of the way, I brought the wire-cutters slowly towards the tube above my right ball. I positioned the sharp, stubby blades around the tube, half-way between the loops of thread. I cupped my left hand below my doomed masculinity.

And hesitated.

"Now!" breathed Donna, urgency and anticipation in her voice.

My right hand clenched, and the deed was done. The severed ball fell into my left hand. I had expected it to feel hot and alive, but it wasn't. Just a small, dead, plum-shaped orb, deprived of the purpose it had so dutifully served while it had been attached to me. I reached out, offered it to Donna.

"Say the words, Peter! I want to hear you say them. I really do!"

Words that had been written on my instruction leaflet came unbidden to my mind.

"Donna," I recited in a monotone, "I give you Crosby. This cheating, worthless testicle was once mine, but now it's yours!"

She took it from my hand. Some part of my brain screamed in fury and frustration. I had just cut one of my own fucking balls off! I didn't want to do it but I had done it. I had watched myself do it, carefully following instructions that my crazy, vindictive bitch of a wife had laid out for me!

"Thank you, Peter!" said Donna sardonically. She slipped my testicle into a little plastic bag. "Now I want Stills!"

Stills. My left ball - the only thing that still remained to nourish my manhood. It was hidden from my sight by my limp, abused prick. Once again I took up my wire-cutters. Nudging the prick aside, I manoeuvred the cutters until I could see the blades were in position. My mind, my heart wept in frustrated fury! I tried so hard to overcome Donna's evil command, but to no avail. My fingers pulled the handles together and the blades closed with a ghastly click.

It was done. With my own hands I had cut both my balls off! I tendered it to Donna. This time I repeated the necessary words without her prompting.

"Donna, I give you Stills. It is yours. Both my balls now belong to you! I have castrated myself for you, and I shall never be a man again."

Donna put the severed orb into the plastic bag, to lie alongside Crosby. But she was still looking at me expectantly. Oh, shit, there was something else I had to say!

"My cock remains between my legs, Donna, but now it has no purpose to serve. Linda said she wanted my cock. May I - "

My own will was struggling desperately to overcome the commands Donna had planted in my mind, and for several seconds I thought I might succeed. But she'd done her work well. Deprived of my balls, it seemed I had lost all my stamina. Gradually, the implanted orders strangled every ounce of willpower that had remained with me, and I knew this horrible scenario had to be acted out until she was completely satisfied.

"May I," I continued, "offer this useless piece of flesh to the woman I cheated with? May I give her this revolting reminder of my infidelity to you?"

Again, Donna smiled. The record had ceased playing, and she got up to turn it over. This was in the days before CDs took over from vinyl. The edgy rhythm of 'Wooden Ships' began to fill the air.

"Yes, Peter! I have no further use for that fucking thing!" She chuckled at her oh-so-clever double-entendre. "Let her have it!"

Donna looked at Linda with a look that could have melted the foundations of the Eiffel Tower and sent it crashing down across the Seine.

"Go and get what you wanted, Linda!" she said. "Eat it! Do it!"

Once again Linda rose, zombie-like, from her chair, and positioned herself on her knees in front of me. My cock was flaccid and lifeless, but she took it into her mouth.

"Suck hard, little bitch!" she urged. I felt my soft flesh being taken deep into her.

"More, Linda! You want all that meat, don't you? Get to the end of it!" At Donna's urging, Linda's lips went to the very root of my prick. Despite myself, and probably despite Donna's own wishes, I felt the vestiges of an erection beginning to form.

"Not just your lips, Linda! You'll never just suck the thing from him! Use your teeth!"

Linda bit down. Donna had said I'd feel no pain, but apparently this didn't refer to my cock. The agony of that first bite shot through my entire body. I could do nothing about it. My hands just caressed Linda's jet-black hair, seeming to encourage her in the grotesque task she'd been set to perform.

"Bite harder, Linda! You want that cock! Make the cheating bastard give it to you!"

She bit. At first she only inflicted pain and bruising, but with each bite she went deeper. Purple blotches at the root of my cock bore witness to the damage she was inflicting on my rod. In due course I saw my blood spurt when she bit through the skin and began to sever the organ.

She did her job well, but the strains of 'Long Time Gone' were playing when she finally separated my cock from my body.

Somehow, I thought Donna would want to put Nash in the same little plastic bag that now contained Crosby and Stills. I was wrong.

"Chew it well, Linda!" she ordered. "Tomorrow, most of it will emerge from your body as shit. But it's good, nourishing meat, and the essence of Peter's prick will remain with you! His cock will be part of you for ever!"

Linda chewed, still in her knees before me. By the time she finally gulped down the last masticated remnants of my cock, Stephen Stills' song '49 Bye-Byes' was echoing at low volume through the room.

I watched Donna administer an anaesthetic to Linda, who collapsed in a heap at my feet. Seconds later, she injected me with the same needle, and I passed out.

-------------------------------------------------------

Donna was an expert. When I regained consciousness, the chewed-up vestiges of my cock had been removed entirely, as had my entire scrotum. She left me with a pee-hole about an inch from my anus, and a neatly sutured scar was the only indication that I had ever had any protruding genitalia.

"Linda..." I started to croak as I first realised where I was and what had happened.

"Don't worry about her!" said Donna. "I've already sent her away, with a few post-hypnotic suggestions. She'll always have a peculiar desire to have something filling her mouth. She'll yearn for prick! And every time any unfortunate male invites her to give him a blowjob, she'll suck him gently first. But then she'll remember what I told her, and her teeth will clamp down and bite, and bite, until she has the poor fellow's manhood to chew into mincemeat and swallow! She won't remember a thing about last night!"

I lapsed into unconsciousness again.

I have no idea what Donna did with Crosby and Stills. She never told me.

Donna and I still live together. I could have had medication to maintain my masculine outlook, but with no genitalia to assert my manhood she thought there wouldn't be much point in it. My body is softening, losing its male shape, and I seem to be developing tits.

She often brings home her male friends. The only testosterone I get comes from the male juices that I have to lick from her cunt, or from the men's cocks, after she's made love. It's not enough to keep me male, but I lap up every bit of masculinity that comes my way in the desperate hope of retaining some vestige of the man I used to be.

I know what my duty is, now. I perform it to the best of my ability.