MDMD-SC

by Allen Baker

I met him on the web. Master Dave. In the Archives' Chat Room, I had told him all about my ball pain fetish and how I fantasize about being castrated when I cum. About how I had experienced much self-abuse, but no experiences at the hands of another man. How I longed for a man to tie me down and make me squirm. Make me squeal. Make me hurt. But in my conservative rural Indiana community, I had not located many gays at all, and none that shared my kinky bent.

We had chatted for more than six months before he ordered me to phone him. I think I was afraid that Master Dave would be disappointing away from the computer screen. But even the deep, gruff voice made my groin tingle from the first sound of it. And when he told me all the things he would do to my nuts if they were in his hands -- well, he could make me shoot without even touching myself.

We had gratifying phone sex at all times of the day and night. But it was another couple of months before he finally told me about his mobile dungeon. Maybe he was judging if I was worthy of him. Or ready for him. Anyway, Master Dave's Mobile Dungeon was evidently hell on wheels. He had taken an early retirement and outfitted a spacious RV with customized equipment to suit his personal desires and traveled all over the states for elaborate sessions with bottoms. Eventually, he told me where to find his web site.

Wow! What a hunk of a menacing man! His greying temples bled into his scruffy beard. The pictures of him in denim and leather could have graced the walls of any biker bar in the country. But the nude ones were the best. Uncut dick of massive proportions sporting a heavy PA ring and big low-hangers beneath. I nearly swooned. And then there were the pictures of his RV: the dungeon on wheels. Every device I had ever seen or read about, and many I hadn't. And at the bottom of the screen was one question. "Can you picture yourself here in MDMD?" And, oh yes, I could indeed!

So obviously, the next step was to set up a time when Master Dave was available near my area. He didn't say so, but it was apparent that he was a busy man, for it was almost three months before he drove his RV up my farm lane on a Friday afternoon. It had been difficult for me to stay away from the window all day, even though I knew he wasn't planning to arrive until late afternoon. So when I finally did see the vehicle driving toward the house, I was relieved that I wasn't being stood up.

And when he stepped out onto the lawn, I found his fantastic pictures did not do him justice. He was 6 foot 5 of smoldering menace. I nearly pissed myself with eager fear. He was even more than I bargained for, and I was apprehensive that I'd be able to satisfy this worldly, experienced top.

But then he grinned a greeting that reassured me. He'd promised to accept me as the novice that I was and test my resolve for this type of experience. We sat in the lawn chairs and chatted about his travel and the weather as we sized each other up.

Finally, he took the lead. "Stand up, boy, and strip."

I stood, but have no idea why I glanced around. Way out on this farm, an uninvited guest was very rare. We were not observed, so I slowly obeyed. Nervously, I stood before him. He didn't say a word. He just slowly walked around me, looking. Finally, he stopped just inches in front of me and stared into my eyes. I felt his left hand stroke my ball sack, then gently grip it. He continued to stare into my eyes as he gradually applied more and more pressure, taking my measure of tolerance. This was the first time I'd ever had a guy hurt me. The first time my fantasies were becoming real. It was so overwhelming I nearly shot my load and had to force myself to hold back. But soon he was past my level of self-inflicted endurance had ever allowed. I began to tremble with effort and had to tightly clasp my hands behind my back so as not to pry at his torturous fingers. I had to bite at my lip to refrain from crying out. I could see he was aware of my efforts. Suddenly his hand was gone.

"I'm going to park around back there in the shade. Take you clothes in the house, clean out your ass until there's nothing but clear running water. Then come back out to my mobile dungeon. Knock and wait."

He turned and strode off without even waiting for agreement. I watched as his van moved away. The license plate caught my eye: MDMD–SC. I knew the first part was Master Dave's Mobile Dungeon. I found myself still contemplating the second part when I realized I need to move it and follow orders.

He kept me waiting a few minutes before calling out for me to come in. I soon found myself inside the typical mobile travel unit. Small living room space with and even smaller galley kitchen. Beyond it, a door stood open to reveal a bathroom. And then my eyes focused on the remaining closed door. Behind it, the main event – the dungeon itself. I began to tremble, not with dread but anticipation. He was waiting behind that door. He and my future.

I inched toward the door and hesitantly knocked.

"Kneel down and bow your head. Keep your unworthy eyes to the floor."

The door opened, and I saw leather boots and the beginnings of sturdy man legs rising up out of sight. Oh, how I longed to follow them up. Oh, how I wanted to study the room that was to be my entrapment for the rest of the weekend. But I forced myself to keep my vision focused on the tips of his two black-clad feet.

"Lick ‘em, boy. Use that tongue to polish those boots."

I didn't even hesitate. I had never tasted a man's footwear before. It had always seemed a power thing, but suddenly I found myself orally adoring this man's feet. It was an act of love, and I freely gave my tongue over to the task.

"Back on your knees with your hands behind you." As I obeyed, he moved behind me. Soon I felt the width of stiff leather encircle my left wrist and be buckled into place. "These are in place for the duration of your time here." The right one was given the same treatment. "Stand up and move to the center of the room."

As I followed his orders, I could see more of him. He wore black chaps with only a studded leather pouch beneath. A leather vest and leather mask completed his attire. I couldn't see his tits, but there was a heavy metal chain that hung under the vest. I couldn't help but wonder how the ends of the chain were attached to his muscular chest. Above his full beard, his nose now sported long pointed hardware through a septum piercing. It heightened the menace that emanated from him. He both thrilled and frightened.

He yanked my arms high above me and attached the leather cuffs to chains dangling from the ceiling. It had finally happened: a masterful man had taken control of me and restrained me for his own amusement. I shuddered in anticipation of the two days ahead.

He reached out and weighed my maleness with his hand. He bounced my testicles gently on his palm. At first it felt wonderful. But while he didn't increase the intensity of the move, he didn't stop either. And soon the gentle consistency became discomfort. Then pain. Then torment. It was a struggle not to cry out. I bit my tongue and felt moisture accumulate at the corners of my eyes. And then with on final hard slap, he stopped to pursue other pleasures. After just twenty minutes in his mobile dungeon, I began to question the sanity of placing myself in such a precarious predicament. How would I ever hold up against this man's assault? Did I have the stamina necessary to prove myself worthy of his time and attention?

Master Dave returned with a six foot length of rawhide which he proceeded to tightly wrap about the top of my ball sack. He started at the base of my cockroot and compressed my nuts lower and lower into the pouch and farther away from my crotch. They soon burned and turned shiny purple. Then he placed a parachute on the them and began to hang weights under my crotch.. I moaned appreciatively.

I saw him pick up a bundle of rawhide with a handle. "This is a flogger." He began to let the ends of it dangle and tease against my body as he moved behind me. "Go with the feelings. Accept them." The first strike against my back was one of weight more than hurt. "We'll start real slow and easy. Focus on the feeling. Force your muscles to relax and become part of the experience. Try not to think, just feel. Don't fight the pain. Accept it. Welcome it. Let it flow into you and energize you. Let it become part of you."

As he spoke, the leather blows became more insistent, heavier. They began to tingle and burn. The pressure was constantly increasing, but the speed of the blows did not vary. He had established a rhythm. I closed my eyes and let them roll back as I relaxed into the pain.

And with each blow, my body jolted and the weights bounced and pulled on my nuts. Soon I couldn't separate the pain in my back from the pain in my balls. It was all the same. It was all immense. And he kept it up, increasing the force of the hits and, near the end, increasing the speed to a frenzied tempo.

And my cock was hard throughout. Throbbing and bouncing and oozing. Finally he spoke again. "Ten more strokes. I'll count them down. On the last one, I want you to cum."

I'd never cum without touching myself before and wasn't sure I could. But somehow it just happened. I guess I'd given myself over to him completely and my body just obeyed him. However it had happened, I'd never had such a climax in my life. I shouted and jerked as each spurt of ropey white juices shot from my dick. My balls cried out a protest at not being able to pull up as they drained. I'd never felt anything like it.

He moved in front of me and gently touched my still throbbing shaft. My still sensitive shaft. It jerked when he made contact. Its tenderness after climaxing made me quake. He stared into my face and keep it up. Caressing and fondling. At first it was a delicious torment that soon turned painful. My nerve endings raged in overload, and I winced with each touch. Soon I was jerking my body in an involuntary attempt to avoid his hand. It only increase the swing of the weights on my screaming balls and did nothing to escape his now murderous fingers. The tears streamed down my cheeks and the blubbering escaping my lips was unintelligible even to me.

I don't know how long he kept at it. Long enough for me to become raw. Long enough to go limp and eventually reharden. It began to feel good again through the pain. In spite of the pain. Because of the pain. And as I approached another orgasm, the ultimate torture: he stopped. I begged him to go on. I needed to come. I pleaded as oozed dribbled from my near-raw cock head. My swelling balls cried out for release.

His only response to my beseeching was a cruel smile that played at the corner of his lips as he picked up a leather strap and moved behind me. My tenderized skin felt the first bite of the leather as it slammed into my right buttock. He was beginning the rhythm of his blows like he had with the flogger. But this was stronger than that had been. It had more bite. The edges left white welts on the pre-reddened surface. The hits cris-crossed over the back of me. Soon there was no part of my back, buttocks or legs that was untouched by his attentive leather. As even so, I remained hard and dripping. And soon, I lost the notion of time and sequence. The rest of my time with him is misted by chunks of memory interspersed with no hint of order. I just know that certain things happened. I remember bits and pieces, mostly the extremes.

Master Dave got tired of hearing my begging. "Stop your whining, pussy. You asked for this." He shoved a ball gag into my mouth and strapped it into place. I moaned but could do little more. He grunted in satisfaction.

At one point he said, "I need to piss. Do you?" I nodded my head in agreement, thinking a short reprieve was at hand. I was wrong. I looked in dismay as he opened a drawer and removed a catheter. I had seen them, but never experienced one. I shuddered as he lubricated it and approached my dick. Slowly he slid the tip into my piss slit. It burned and felt like my tube would be torn and ripped apart. On and on it went, sliding into my dick and farther until it pressed against my bladder opening. He forced it farther and suddenly it popped into my bladder, and I felt the familiar deep urge to urinate. But he had the clamp firmly in place and made it impossible to relieve myself. He inflated the balloon and even my piss was in his control.

He moved behind me, and I heard the pop of his pouch snaps. I moaned appreciatively as I felt his cock for the first time as it rubbed up and down my crack. He moved it to my entry and slammed it home. I choked and bleated into the rubber ball. He didn't move, didn't establish a rhythm, just stood there. Suddenly I understood why: he began to piss! I hadn't dallied with watersports before. It was a real rush to feel his urine pressure its way into my bowels. Finally, he finished and began to withdraw. "Hold it in there, boy. Don't loose a drop." He pulled away completely, but I soon felt another object at my ass. He pushed an unusually large butt plug into place. "Just keep clamped onto that, and you wont spill any."

He still hadn't released the clamp on my catheter, and my inner pressure was building. I tried to beg through the gag. My bladder was screaming. He ignored me and picked up a long tube which he attached to the catheter. Then he stuck the other end through a hole centered in my ball bag.

"I guess you've waited long enough to piss." I shook my head violently, but saw him reach out and release the clamp. My mouth was suddenly flooded with my urine! I had never tasted it before. It stung with its acrid, salty taste as it filled my mouth. I had no choice but to swallow. "You're just going to recycle all weekend," he informed me. The tears streamed down my cheeks.

Sometime later, he removed the weights from my nuts and brought out an acrylic vice. He wedged my balls between the two clear plates and began to tighten them down. At first the pressure was nothing more than a tightness. But that soon changed. In the mirror, I could see them flatten and spread. And he kept turning and turning. I thought I would pass out from the pain, but I wasn't that lucky. Eventually, he stopped and showed me that he'd mashed them until the plates were nearly a quarter inch apart! Oh, God, could they possible survive this?

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a box. Through my tears I could make out the words hypodermic needles. He pulled one out and tore it out of its sterile pouch. He held up the vice and slipped it through a small hole in the surface. I hadn't noticed, but there were hundreds of them. He looked up into my eyes and slowly pushed on the needle. Blinding flashes of red danced behind my eyes. I screamed around the gag. And he pushed until the needle went all the way through and out the back plate. My chest was heaving. And he picked up another needle and did it again. And again. And again. Finally the box was empty. He held it up for me to see the quantity on the side: 50! I sobbed, knowing that when they came out, my sack would bleed like a sieve.

Then he attached electrical wires to the needles and stood back to watch me dance. The diabolical machine kept me guessing. Short or long bursts of lightning. Gentle or strong. Fluctuating tempo. And I danced and sang a shouting accompaniment. And he smiled and stroked himself to climax.

And so it went, new torments, on and on and on. The two days somehow passed. I don't know what all he did to me. But I loved it. I tremble to admit it. Degrading and humiliating as it is to say. I deserved and loved every minute of my torture. And finally, he stopped. He released me and removed all the implements of my pain. He lay me back on the leather table and strapped me down. He covered me with a thin blanked and dimmed the lights. "Time to rest. The best is yet to come. But first rest."

I was gone.

Suddenly, the lights were back. I was stronger, more alert. The sleep had refreshed. He whipped the sheet from me. "And now, for my swan song. Did you notice the ‘SC' on the license plate?" I nodded that I had since he still had the gag in place. "Any idea what that stands for?" A shake of my head informed him I did not. "Well, your ultimate fantasy is about to come true. It stands for ‘Surgical Center', and you're about to have your last orgasm with these intact." He bounced my balls on his palm.

It took a few moments for his words to center in my head. Then I realized he was talking about castration! I freaked. I tugged and pulled at my bonds. I shouted and screamed. But when I caught the look on his face, I froze. There was no mercy there, just a calm determination. And suddenly I realized that this should have come as no surprise. Everything I had told him in my emails and over the phone supported this action. He was merely fulfilling my dreams. I had actually hired him to do this. I just hadn't realized it. There was no way out. This is what he had come here for; this is what he does.

My mind when into hibernation as he set about with his preparations. He placed a mirror about me so I would have an unobstructed view. He scrubbed and donned surgical gloves and washed my crotch with orange surgical scrub. He wheeled a tray or instruments into place and picked up a scalpel. "Here we go. I'll respect your fantasy and use no anesthesia."

In spite of myself, I was erect. Harder than I'd ever known. I winced as he expertly sliced down the left, then the right side of my scrotum. Then he fished around and plucked out my left nut. The funny, grey glob dangled on a tube hanging from the slit in my sack. I stared at it. He did the same to the right one. Then he tied surgical string about the cords and sutured them as well.

Then he picked up his scissors and placed the left cord into its jaws. By this time, my cock was throbbing in time with my heartbeat and oozing goo. Cock slime slithered down and dripped into my navel. I was on a hair trigger. He closed the scissors, and the snip sound made my dick lurch and bob. Now streams of clear juice slid out of my dick head. The scissors closed in on the right cord. I watched in the mirror as he held them there. He looked at my eyes in the mirror and just waited. Finally, I gave a sigh and nodded to him. He snapped the scissors. My last ball dropped away. And my orgasm racked my body. It was the most severe of my life. Spout upon spout of thick white globs shot from my prick and covered my chest and stomach. I was drenched and gasping. And Master Dave pounded his own dick with his gloved hand and soon added to the sticky mess on my chest.

Then he picked up a syringe and stuck my arm. "Time to sleep."

I woke later that day in my own bed. I hurt too much to make my way to the window, but I instinctly knew the vehicle of my destruction was gone. Beside me was a note of after-care instructions and some bottles of medication. On the floor beside the bed was a box of video tapes. He had recorded the entire weekend. I went back to sleep.

It's been three weeks now and the swelling is down. I'm heeling nicely. I've watched the final tape over and over. It never fails to arouse me, even if my erections are not what they were. I've spoken with Master Dave a few times on the phone. He's still traveling. Still fulfilling fantasies. He assures me my donations are safely stored in a vial of preservative and properly labeled. He says he will grant visiting privileges if he's back in the area again.

That thought makes me nervous. Going back into that scene of my ultimate torment. Not sure I could do it. But my fantasies have changed. I now think of losing my dick, too. So who knows, in time I may just