Search for a Cutter

by Allen Baker

I managed to control my attitude until the door to the lobby was at my back. Then a smile began to play about the corners of my mouth. By the time I was half way across the parking lot, a huge grin broke out. And when I reached my car I had begun to pump my fists into the air and chant a mantra of "Yeah!" to the world at large.

For two years I had surfed the net, haunted chat rooms, and followed false leads. I had tried in vain to find a cutter. A guy who would deprive me of my balls. That vile, cruel duo who forced me to suffer unspeakable humilities to feed their cravings. To do servile acts to gratify their longings. To grovel and beg to fulfill their needs. They had ruled my life since puberty. They had dictated the use of my time. They had dominated my thought patterns and invaded my dreams. I was their slave. And I sought emancipation.

Two years ago I had stumbled on a web site dedicated to eunuchs. My mind exploded with the immediate realization that the solution to my years of frustration was in front of me on the screen. I read the stories – some fiction, some real – and visited the idea exchange section of the site. They turned me on and motivated my nuts to even greater yearnings. But they also gave me hope – hope for a future free from consuming desire.

During the next months, I researched castration. The reasons for having it done. The results. The side effects. Everything pointed toward this being the ideal solution to my constant suffering. And so, I decided to get myself castrated. The decision was much less difficult that the realization. There was so much bravado on those sites. I'd spend hours and days cultivating an on-line relationship with a guy who professed to be a cutter. Then would arrange to meet with him. When the exciting day arrived, some of them would just not show. Some would show, but be nothing like their on-line persona. Most of those would eventually confess to never really having done a castration. Most lived in their fantasy world and assumed I was doing the same. That we were meeting for a play session, a pretend event. Those were times that I'd leave depressed and frustrated.

Finally, I found a doctor in Philadelphia who would do the procedure. But again, my hopes were raised for naught. He informed me there was no way to get my insurance company to authorize payment for the elective operation. And there was no way my meager savings would handle the expense. So I returned to the net and hoped again to find an experienced amateur who was honest about his willingness to cut me.

In the mean time, I turned my wrath onto the villains. I turned to ball torture as a release. And there I did find willing partners on the web. Men who had no compunction about brutalizing my nuts. I figured that is they were forcing me to seek release, they would have to suffer the consequences of how I chose to be stimulated. I found guys who loved to use vices to squeeze. Who used cord and rope to tie and pull. Who used needles to puncture the balls themselves. All these brought release and fed my need to revenge myself on my dual masters. But these were all temporary fixes, not permanent solutions.

It was during one of these play sessions that the guy in charge noticed an oddity and suggested that I see the doctor about it. He assumed that the severe treatment of my nuts had resulted in a clot or scar. But just the same, he figured it would be best to be sure that it wouldn't burst or cause major bleeding or something during play. I guessed he was right and followed up with an appointment with my doctor.

I loved having Dr. Jon tell me to drop my pants and shorts. I stood proudly in front of him with my man parts dangling in full view. He sat on a low stool that placed his face at crotch level. That made me begin to thicken, and I slightly panicked, but then figured this was nothing new to him. He pulled on some rubber gloves and rolled his stool into close proximity.

My prong lurched as his latex-covered fingers lifted my sac. He chuckled. "Don't worry about that," he said as he flicked my rising dick off to the side. "If it gets hard, that will just pull it up out of my way."

His words and the flick of his finger had just that result. I was instantly rigid and pointing at my navel. His hands busied themselves with my pouch. It was such a turnon to have him stretch and pull and probe. He squeezed and poked and inquired about pain and this or that sensation. Finally, to my disappointment, he let go of my pouch and scooted away.

"I located two lumps in there that definitely don't belong. They are growths that we'll need to have a biopsy of them. Most of these are benign, but we've got to be sure. Get undressed and lie back on the table. I'll just need to use a needle to take some tissue samples to send of to the lab. But first we'll need to do some prep."

I did as he said and spread my nude form across his work table. He brought a warm cloth and washed my sack. My dick went wild and flung itself every which way. Dr. Jon chuckled, "That thing has a life of its own. We'd better do something to keep it out of the way." He took two lengths of surgical tape and secured my cock to my stomach. His touch caused precum to ooze out of the slit and pool in my navel cavity.

Then doc applied shaving cream to my sack. I'd always wanted to have shaved balls, but had never had the nerve to take a razor to them myself. I moaned as he smeared the cream around my pouch and began to stroke it with his straight razor. I held my breath, afraid to move. He was efficient, and soon I was smooth and hairless. He took another wet cloth and rinsed them. It felt so great to be baby soft down there as he coated the area in an orange antibacterial wash.

"Now then, Allen, this won't be pleasant, but I'll make it as quick as possible." Dr. Jon approached with a needle. And not just any old needle – this one was huge! "Now don't worry, this is only going into the skin. It won't go near your testicles. Just into the growths themselves. And they normally have little nerve endings to cause much discomfort. I'll be taking about three samples in each of the two spots, so it won't take long at all."

The instant the needle went into my sack, my cock reacted like it did during a needle session with a master top – it began to seep dick goo and throb. That didn't go unnoticed by the doc. He chuckled and said, "I think you're into this sort of thing."

I don't know where I got the courage to say it. "You bet I am."

Dr. Jon just raised an eyebrow and grinned. Then went on to take his samples. The whole thing only lasted about two minutes. But when he pulled the needle out the last time, he brushed his palm across my cock, and I moaned and shot my load. Huge, healthy globs of man juice spewed onto my chest and abdomen. I blushed with shame.

Again the doctor just laughed. "Well, whatever they are, the growths haven't affected your natural reactions one bit. Here, clean yourself up, and I'll see you next week with the results.

And so today, when I sat in his office, it was really difficult to hide my true reactions to the test findings. Dr. Jon was sympathetic and almost maudlin in his reassurances. "Even though they are cancerous, we've caught them early. The disease has not traveled out of the pouch and there is no risk for the long term. But, Allen, I'm sorry to say, the testicles themselves are involved. They will have to be removed. I'm sorry, Allen, you'll have to be castrated."

It was the best acting job I've ever done. Keeping my face solemn and serious as a doctor would have expected. Pretending to reluctantly agree to the operation. Allowing Dr. Jon to console me and sooth my shock. I deserve an Oscar for the performance. He set the surgery date for next week.

And so my long-sought separation from my dominating nuts is imminent. The excitement is building. I even talked him into having it done with just a local so I can watch. And, he agreed to let me set up my camera to catch it on video tape, too, as long as he can have a copy. I think he guessed that I'm turned on by the whole thing, but still, I felt I had pretend to be the grieving patient. And so here I sit in the parking lot with a shit-eating grin. And a rock hard cock. And the assurance that I've found a cutter at last who will rid me of my driving desires. Next week I'll finally have an empty pouch.