For the Boys....

For the boys....

I hate him. Fat, ugly, and stupid. My name isn’t that important. But when I was a kid I used to help him in the rectory, carrying the bread and the wine and doing what I was told. Back then I was naïve, and stupid, and thought I was the only one and so I held the secret and my parents never knew. Now, well, now that has been many years ago, and a lot has happened in my life since then. I look at him, and my guts turn over the hatred goes so deep. He’s naked, and scared, and he has good reason to be. God will not protect him from this, not after what he has done. His mouth is taped closed, and his fat legs are spread wide, tied down across the pool table. They are spread so wide his knees almost make it to the edges, and his arms are tied over his head and the rope restraining them goes out of site under the table. But it is not the ropes or his legs or his arms that grabs my attention. It's not even the little chain with its cross that he wears around his neck. No, it’s his balls. His forty-five year old sack is huge, almost like it belongs on an animal and not a man, hanging loose and resting on the table top, the huge balls in his sack so big they look like two big walnuts trapped in his sack. His prick isn’t that long, not as pricks go, but it is hard and thick and straining, almost eager even, the big purple head oozing his seed almost as if it is drooling. Perhaps it somehow knows, somehow senses what is to come. Perhaps its eager for justice even because of what it has done. Who can really say? It bounces slightly, twitching almost with an eagerness, and it’s so damn hard. It bounces up and down and perhaps it bounces to his heartbeat or maybe it bounces from his fear. Whatever the reason, I watch the big bulging head, a dark purple, round and oozing, and as I watch it twitch and jump I can’t help but remember.

It’s his turn to feel the fear and the fear is there alright. He’s grunting out something under the duct tape, trying to use his sweet talking voice to get him out of this too I guess. I don’t care, and he is figuring that out. His eyes are wild, open and frightened, and are doing all his begging, begging for his nuts perhaps even though he should already know they are mine. A few of those who were once his boys from those times not so long ago have come in support of me, and they are smiling, yet their pleasure is tainted by the pain of the memory. Still, they stare at his hanging sack and I sense they are anxious for it to be taken and for justice to be done. The man’s robes and collar are over on the chair, the robes that say he is a priest even though his actions say otherwise. His congregation has left him as the word got out, and it is now come out that the alter boys he molested litter the years between then and now. I have no idea the number, and the police are still figuring it out. I can almost hear their tears, their broken lives forever changed by the man we all trusted. I wish they could all be here now, watching him on the table, tied here, staring back at them with his big sack and his eager prick, them watching it unfold even if they might not fully comprehend or even agree on what is going to happen. At least they would know why. No one was there for us then. His superiors even protected him when they found out. No one was there for me when he came in the rectory when I was a boy. Noone was there for me when he put his hand down my pants and rubbed my growing cock as I sat frozen in fear. No boy should ever face that fear. No boy should ever be forced to taste a cock he never wanted to see, or feel a man's hand pumping him before he has even learned to do it to himself. There is not punishment great enough to pay for what this priest has done. Perhaps God will punish him. Perhaps. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not going to wait for God to do it for me. Eight years I’ve waited for this moment, and now I take my well-earned revenge and I do it for me and for them.

I don’t want him bleeding to death. I want him to know what he’s lost, to feel the embarrassment when he is found, to know that everyone knows his balls are gone and he has been neutered. He deserves to feel the ridicule. No, I can’t let him bleed to death, so I use his own bootlaces and make the loop in the leather. As he watches, I pull the loop up, around his balls, up tight against where his huge sack meets his body. I make the knot, and he watches me do it. He is desperate, grunting, begging me, jerking on the ropes and desperately willing me to not pull it closed. How many boys did he molest? I look him in the eyes, and then I see the recognition. Ah, he remembered! So, now he knows it is me and I can see the connection and its clear he knows why I am here. I jerk it closed, and as I do he grunts and screams into the tape. I like watching his huge hips hump the air then, his big prick getting even harder as he feels his sack being shut closed. He’s wild now, thrusting and humping and jerking, struggling like a madman as he feels it and knows his balls are at risk. I smile now, along with my friends from so long ago that are at my side in support. I double knot the leather, to make sure, and then I pull out my Gerber and let him see the knife.

He doest like it, not at all, and starts to shake his head from side to side and then suddenly he’s struggling even harder, if that is possible. I let him watch the knife for a while, the blade still retracted, and yet still his eyes are so wide open I can tell he’s in a panic. Next thing I know he’s grunting wildly, trying to scream out something but the mumbles are not understandable. It doesn’t matter. There is nothing he could say to undo the wrong of so many years and to so many boys, and so as I watch his big balls, now trapped in their sack, I know that it is right that I should take them and I almost feel as if God is helping me to do it.

I pull open the knife, and the blade, razor sharp, snaps into view. I don’t hesitate. I grab his big sack with my left hand, and pull out on it, the entire bulging scrotum so big and fat and so damn full of his balls that it almost defies description. Then I move my other hand, up next to the leather that has trapped his balls, and then I start to make the slice with the knife I am holding. He arches his back then and looks to the ceiling, and as I begin the cut his jism just erupts from inside of him, splashing out and onto his fat belly as he humps the air and feels the feeling as he starts to lose his balls. I keep slicing, the knife working its way through his huge sack, and the blood that flows is a little messy but its not as much as you might think. The leather keeps the skin closed at the wound, and the bleeding is minimal. Still holding his scrotum I work the knife, trying to time the cutting and my wrist that is working the knife to the spasms of his last ejaculation. The last time I saw him cum I was a boy swallowing it all, his hands on my head as he forced it down my throat. This time as he finishes dumping the last of his cream onto his belly, I finish the cut and his balls come free. His expression is wide, the pain consuming him and his pleasure taken from him forever. As he feels the end of his castration he tests the ropes even harder, and as his balls finally come free and he sees them in my hand he starts to heave and for a moment I think he is going to vomit. He sees them plane-as-day, knows I have done it, and as he takes it all in, his huge sack no longer his and his balls still quivering in my hands you can almost see the defeat as it overwhelms him.

I drop them onto his belly, right on top of the little pool of white semen he has pumped out onto his stomach. That’s the final straw and he grunts as he feels his balls hit his belly, and as he stares at them I watch him continue to hump the air like a crazed maniac, desperate perhaps to undo what has been done. I watch him humping the air with his fat ball-less cock, and it goes on for perhaps thirty seconds or so. But after that he just suddenly stops, and like a balloon that has lost its air, he just collapses under the realization of what he has lost. His balls are gone forever and then as I watch his hard prick slowly begins to soften. I lean over just then, as he lays their defeated and spent and unmoving, and I whisper in his ear: “Father, you don’t deserve them. You know it too. So, not a word. You have no idea who did this to you. Remember that, or I swear we will come back for your little dick, and if we do, we will take it an inch at a time. You understand? May God have mercy on your balls.” With that, I walk out the door, leaving the fat priest on the table, his scrotum on his belly and his castrated balls inside still quivering, unattached, within the holy sack that was only minutes ago still his.

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