The Thing About Doris

by

Kortpeel

The really nice thing about Doris, apart from her looks was that she understood BDSM. As an aficionado myself, I reckoned I’d struck gold when I met her. I loved her creativity in this area. She had a talent amounting to genius for it. She knew what would get me going before I’d even thought of it.

It was two years into our marriage when she had me naked, bound wrist and ankles to the bed, legs splayed. A parachute on my balls was attached to a nylon cord which rose at 45 degrees to a sheave wheel mounted on a purpose –made steel stand. Currently the weight hanging from the cord was thirty kilograms and Doris was carefully adding another ten kilogram weight. I could feel the extra load on my scrotum. And some pain too.

“Doris, I think that might be a bit too much.”

“No it’s quite safe provided you don’t make any jerky movements. Just keep still.” Doris sounded serious about keeping still. She had me scared but at the same time I knew that inducing fear was part of her BDSM talent. She measured my scrotum. “That’s good; another six millimetres. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.” She walked out and left me there.

Doris’s aim with this ball stretching was to have me walking around in a mini-skirt with my balls dangling below the hem. Humiliation was part of her repertoire. The tight p.v.c. skirt for the occasion was already hanging in the cupboard but so far I hadn’t worn it.

I’d complained when I first saw it that it looked sluttish. “Exactly,” she’d said. “If you were really entitled to wear a skirt you’d be the kind of slut who’d choose a skirt like that.” The well chosen insult was part of her armoury too. “Besides, it will show off your butt nicely.”

Doris came back with a tray of tea. “Just one minute to go.” I needed that tea. My throat was dry. Fear has that effect. She put down the tray and checked the stretch on my scrotum. “Another two millimeters. So far so good.”

She lightly fingered my prick. “What I can’t understand is how you can keep a hard on all through the ball stretch. You really are a sick pervert. I believe you actually enjoy it don’t you?”

She knew damned well I enjoyed it. Suddenly her face screwed up in disgust. “Oh Jed, you’re all bristly down there. You haven’t shaved.” Shaving the pube was compulsory. Doris insisted on it. My prick got a light chastising rap from the ruler that Doris used to measure my ball extension. “I’ll let you out and you can go and shave your pube.”

“Careful how you remove those weights.”

Doris, kneeling by the weights, gave me a withering look. “Be quiet. This is the tricky part and I need to concentrate.” She returned to the task and was lifting off the top weight when our door bell rang.

“Coo-ee. It’s only me,” Doris‘s mother sang out.

Doris stood up, dropped the weight, lost her balance and fell on to the steel stand. I don’t know whether I actually saw my balls flying away from my groin or just imagined it. I passed out at that point.

Doris collected me from hospital next morning. They’d kept me in overnight for observation. I’d enjoyed the tender, intrigued attention from the nurses as they so dutifully checked my dressing and, incidentally, my erectile function.

Doris did her best to be sympathetic but it seemed to me that my balls hurtling across the room was the ultimate BDSM turn on for her. There was a sparkle in her eyes and a flush in her cheeks every time she spoke about it, which was all the time.

“I’ve got your new balls here,” she told me when we got home. She produced a syringe and some little glass ampoules. “I have to give you a shot every Friday evening.” She couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from her voice. “The people at the hospital explained it all to me.”

All that was two years ago. Life goes on and we’re still happy. Doris loves having a husband with no balls. She’s six months pregnant with our first child. Don’t ask – that’s another story. Doris assures me that the kid will look like me.

Oh yes, and there’s a picture in our secret album of me in that mini skirt. The balls hanging below the hem are those plastic ones that some guys hang on their trucks. It’s an awesome picture. Doris gets turned on every time she looks at it.