Ayzintion City – The Youngest Cutter

My name is Joshua, and I became a cutter when I was fourteen years old. You are right of course, about my age. I was the youngest cutter that has ever been in Ayzintion City and I can take some pride in that accomplishment. My father is a cutter, as was my grandfather, and his father before him. I think it is in my blood, and I have always known that I would be a cutter too. My earliest memories are of the slaves being tied and their balls coming off. I was made to carry the heavy scrotum buckets almost as soon as I could walk, dragging them from the cutting yard to the central city, where the Apothecary shop would buy them to dry and grind into powder. Sometimes they were so heavy I could only drag one bucket at a time. You wouldn’t think they would be that heavy when they are being dropped into the dirt, but while the balls of a single slave aren’t in themselves heavy, when you multiply that by more than a hundred they become more than anyone can lift by himself. I know, because picking up the freshly cut balls is a boy’s job, or at least my father thinks it is. You don’t argue with my father, not when you are a boy and he is using his knife to take the balls from one slave after another.

I can tell the tale now. I couldn’t have told it then, not when I was fourteen I couldn’t. But now enough years have passed and the memory of the embarrassment of that first time has faded, and so it is that I can tell you and get the words out. It hasn’t been quite so long that I can laugh at it, but still I can tell it, and that is something. It happened the very week I turned fourteen. Perhaps it was a birthday present of sorts. I don’t know why my father chose that time, but I was just fourteen, barely, when he selected me to become a cutter. Even now, four years later I’ve still got a ways to go, but on that day I made a step toward my life’s profession, and so I will tell you the tale. It really began as a simply thing, over supper with my mother present even. It began with my father’s words, as he told me that it was time for me to learn the trade. At fourteen you already know all there is to know about the world, or so you think, and I guess I was typical in that regard. I certainly didn’t think there was that much to being a cutter, although I didn’t dare to tell him so. In my fourteen years I had watched him cut a lot of slaves, and I had stood at his side and held the bowl and watched his knife slice the sacs off so many and so often that I figured it could not be that difficult. I knew the pay was good, and I had only seen one go badly, and that was when I was very young and so it was not a memory I carried or a worry I shared. I have hoisted a lot of balls, and I’ve felt them when they are still warm and freshly severed. I’ve also picked them up from the dirt when they are cold and beginning to harden. By the time I was thirteen he had let me start tying the sacs for him, which expedited his tasks and allowed him to cut more slaves than he could have otherwise. I had gotten good at the cinch knot and preparing the gutstrings. I would soak the leather in brine, and keep in moist, so that when the knot was tied and the balls were bound the string would shrink as it dried, tightening the knot tighter and literally strangling the balls of the slave in the process. I actually enjoyed making the knot, isolating the slave’s balls in his sac and beginning the process to unman him. It was almost fun to jerk it closed, to watch them hump the rail or to shake the table as they felt my string begin its work. It made me feel good to have that much power, and it didn’t seem to me to be that big of a deal to take them off afterwards. The crowd always loved it when I tied the slave’s balls. I think they got a kick out of watching my father’s son do the tying, watching a boy tie the nuts of a man and make the preparations so they could be taken. By the time I was fourteen I had the confidence to be a cutter, and I felt I could do it as well as anyone if they would give me the chance. I mean, I knew the motion that my father’s wrist made, and I was pretty certain I could do is just as well as he.

I liked being a part of it all. I was always fascinated at the way the slave would jerk against his bonds, almost thrusting forward as if he was making a last desperate attempt to fuck something, even as the knife was taking his balls from him. They always grunted into their gags too, and usually their eyes were wide open as the cut was made. Not always though, but most of the time. Some slaves keep them tightly closed, almost as if they thought they could prevent it if they couldn’t see it happen. Still, when the knife is up against their balls, and their pricks are stiff and eager, they usually open their eyes then, wide open, almost in shock, as they struggle hard that one last time and test the bonds even harder as if they could somehow get free. Their thighs are usually straining to close their legs, and its important to make the ties tight and to keep their legs splayed. When I was learning the trade at my father’s side he would sometimes have me put my hand to their ass just then, to rest it there on their butt as he made the cut. He told me it was good to feel their straining, and so I’d feel how their buttocks would tighten and then spasm with the cut. Yeah, that was always fascinating, no matter how many times I had seen or felt it as it was done.

I think the thing that most fascinated me though was when they would shoot their seed. I’ve seen hundreds of slaves castrated I guess, and while you can never really be certain, it is far more common that they will shoot than it is they will not. Sometimes they shoot their seed as soon as you touch their pricks or their balls, almost as if they are eager and the touch puts them over the edge. More often it comes when the knife is placed against their balls, the curve of the blade against their sac, but still long before the cut is even begun. I guess though that it most often happens when the knife starts the slice. Yes, I think that is the most common, when they are straining against the bonds and struggling and still hoping that it really won’t happen. Just as the knife begins to take them, they feel the cut and their seed begins to shoot forth, sometimes so violently it’s almost like they know all hope is gone and it will be their last. I like to hear them grunt as it is done, and I’ve never watched a slave that didn’t say something into his gag. Usually it’s a grunting noise they make just as the ejaculation begins, although sometimes the pain registers more and the need to scream overcomes the grunting sound as they spill out their seed. I always like it when they grunt though, just as their balls are being taken and they are at that very moment shooting the essence of their manhood into the air. If they are on their backs tied to the table their white goo usually ends up on their belly. I have seen some younger slaves shoot several feet into the air, almost like a fountain of semen spewing forth from their desperation. If it is done with them bent over the rail, from underneath, then they usually shoot into the dirt. I like to watch them pump it out no matter where it goes. If you are doing them from behind you can stare at their assholes as they ejaculate. Their hole opens and closes with each contraction, and as their holes are jerking and sucking the air their seed shoots from deep within them and always pulsates out their pricks like a rope. You would think they would stop as the knife makes the cut, but they don’t. When a slave starts to cum he will finish his load, emptying his manhood into the dirt or onto his belly no matter how big the crowd or how fast or slow his balls are taken. Even without his balls, his last wad is usually unaffected, and more times than not the load they shoot is more powerful and thicker than any load they have ever shot before. I don’t know why that is. My father said he has no idea either, but he has noticed it too. It is almost like they know it is their last chance, and so their big balls almost push it out, emptying themselves for the last time even as the knife slices them off.

Anyway, as I was saying I was just barely fourteen the day I became a cutter. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was wrong about it being easy, and I think looking back that my father made it more difficult for me than was necessary to teach me a lesson. I’m sure he had his reasons, and now that I have been cutting for a few years I think I better understand them. Of course I will never ask him, as I still cannot discuss that day with him, but still while I had thought that I was confident and ready I found out that I was not. Perhaps it was a lesson in humility that I needed, and it was one that I have certainly never forgotten. Before that day I was over confident, almost defiant even in my dealings with my parents, and I only half listened to my father and often did what I wanted when I wanted.

That all started to change the moment when I saw the boy I was to cut. It just seemed different when he was stretched out and waiting for ME to do him. My father had given me the knife on my birthday the week before, at the very dinner table when he told me it was time for me to learn the trade. I remember my mother’s glance and the look of worry in her eyes, and then suddenly I was holding the box and when I opened it and saw the knife I gasped with my excitement. Yes, I still remember how thrilled I was to hold it. Since then I’ve sharpened the edge again and again, honing it to perfection and working the metal on the stone until it shines. The knife has cut a lot of balls since I was first given it, but back then it was new and the only balls it had taken were the ones I had imagined. Usually in my dream the slave was older, struggling only a little as I easily sliced his nuts. I dreamed of the quick slice, the applause from the crowd, and a tip from the grateful owner for the excellent job I had done. Somehow our fantasies don’t always turn out the way we imagine them.

Yes, I remember the knife, and still use it today. The gelding knife is a beautiful instrument, and I can tell even then that my father purchased me the best one he could find. The handle is ivory, and inlaid, and the curve of the blade is the perfect radius to reach around a bound sac and take the balls within. Mine was made from the finest steel. As soon as I had received it I practiced with it in the air, felt it, made the pull I would make again and again and again, dreaming of the balls that I would take and the grunting of the slaves as I took them. I was excited all the next day, and I was eager for the sales and the trading so that a cutting would be ordered and I could do it. Finally, the next market day had arrived and my father and I left after breakfast for the square and I knew it was time. When the market finally opened my heart was pounding, but then after the first transaction was not given to me I begin to feel that my father might make me wait for another day. In fact, my father did the first twenty of the day, and so I had figured that it was not yet my time and I had slowly lost the excitement I had possessed in the early morning. By noon my knife was still unused in its sheath on my waist, and I am sure my disappointment must have been obvious. When the noonday sun was high overhead he had then sent me away for lunch, and as most of the selling and the buying was over for the day I left knowing I had missed my opportunity. However, I was wrong and after lunch, as I came back I saw the boy and my heart began to race with excitement as it was obvious he was waiting to be cut and my father was waiting for me to do it. I could hardly believe it! As I approached, my father introduced me to the slave’s owner, and told me that his purchase was in my hands now and I had better do it right. I swallowed; realizing suddenly that from the look of the owner it was obvious he did not trust me to do it. The look he gave me was one of scorn and doubt, and as I was a mere boy I could tell he figured I was too young to be given the task. Still, my father must have guaranteed the cutting, as he was clearly going to allow me to go forward and do it in spite of his concerns. I never heard the price for my labor, and even to this day I’ve never asked what was paid. I never saw any of it, I know that much for sure. I do remember that he told me that the slaves name was Michael, and he, like me, was fourteen years old. I think when he told me that my face must have changed, as my father laughed as I heard this and he slapped me on my behind and told me to “get it done Joshua, now.” It was obvious from the remarks the owner had made that Michael had been purchased to serve in the house of the owner. As I looked at the boy who was my age I realized his fate was sealed, and his life as a servant would be difficult and he would likely serve his master in more than the kitchen. I don’t know anything else about him really. I don’t know from where he came or how he came to be tied. But I knew enough to know he had been bought, and his owner wanted him cut, and the fee had been negotiated and the task was mine to perform. That was really all I had to know. Still, I wondered why my father had decided he was to be my first one, but there was nothing I could say and so I steeled myself to do it and I dared not let my father or the owner know how much it was bothering me.

The boy was there, tied out and ready, his naked buttocks open and exposed, the smoothness of his ass pure white and untanned. Someone had already stuffed a rag into his mouth, and his balls were hanging down in the heat of the early afternoon sun. As the boy struggled his balls swayed to and fro, his young prick at least three quarters stiff and up and out of the way. I knew as soon as I saw him that his balls were waiting for me to take them even though the boy who owned them certainly felt otherwise. I knew enough to know they were tender, and the knife should go through them quickly and effortlessly. Still, what I wasn’t prepared for was the way he reminded me of myself, laying there, tied out, spread eagled, his balls dangling down and his prick thin and still growing, almost exactly like my own. The tuft of hair above it was like my own as well, a small patch that had sprouted and had yet to fill in the way it does with a man.

Suddenly, everything intensified. I noticed the crowd that had gathered, and there were at least fifty near the rail. The lad was trussed over the rail, with his legs spread out and tied by the ankles in that inverted “V” that I had seen so many times before, his wrists bound together and stretched out to a peg in the dirt in front of him. He was stretched out so as to face the crowd, so that they could see his expression if he looked forward, and his ass was perched high and his legs were trussed out so wide that everything was open to me. I always thought my first slave would be done on the table, but my father for some reason had wanted me to do my first one from behind, and I assumed it was because he would be faced away and it would be easier to concentrate on the task. Still, I would have to feel as much as see what I was doing, and I knew that I needed to be careful and to do it right. Still, as I gazed upon his ass, watching him struggle against the ties that held him open and ready, I felt a chill down my spine as I realized that everyone was watching me, and waiting for me to do what must be done. I felt up under him then, and my hand was shaking! God, I still remember how hard it was shaking, almost like it had a mind of its own and I was not in control of it. Still, I tried to feel his stones, but I was so nervous that I fondled his sack and had to actually hunt for them. The boy grunted as I touched him, and he jerked his ass in fear and desperation. My fingers reached up and I let my other hand reach around him for his prick. I’m not sure why I did that, perhaps thinking back it was to steady it. God! When I touched it it felt EXACTLY like it did when I touched my own----and as I gripped it it stiffened in my fist and went as rigid as a piece of steel. Almost at the same instant he was thrusting as he struggled, and as his ass jerked against the bonds his prick was going in and out of my fist, and my face flushed red with embarrassment as I felt the feeling of it and the wildness of his struggles. It was as if it was my own dick in my own hand even though it was the dick of another! I jumped back, dropping the lad’s prick as I did so, and as I did laughter rippled through the crowd. I looked up and my father’s eyes met mine and the stern look I found there brought me back to the task that was waiting.

God he was like me! I was shaking then, the look of the boy reminding me of myself almost as if it was my own body trussed over the rail. There was sweat running down his back, and as I saw it I realized I too was sweating in the sun. He had only a few wisps of hair under his arms, and as I noticed it I realized that my own armpits were almost exactly the same. His little prick was stiff and hard and jutting, and as I realized that I also realized that my own dick was just as hard in my pants, yes just as hard as his. I felt his prick again, just for a moment, and it was already oozing fluid from the tip and as I felt the moistness of it I knew I was doing the same. I could only hope that the crowd did not notice, but as I looked around they were looking at me and it was obvious that they knew. I dared to glance down, and could see the bulge in my pants and a small dot of wetness where the tip of my prick lay against my trousers. The rounded end of my own dick could be seen outlined through the fabric, the mushroom head eager with desire. As I looked down at it my face went red with embarrassment. I then looked up and as I did so I saw that my fathers face was staring at me and the look in his eyes was intense and serious. I’m not sure it was anger, but he certainly had the look that I knew was all business and it brought be back to the task. I swallowed, and then, my hand still shaking, I took the leather gutstring I had prepared the night before and made the knot that makes the loop of the trade. I screwed it up, fumbled with the string, and had to retie it. I finally got it made right and with it in hand I approached the boy, coming up from behind his ass. His face was looking back at me, over his shoulder, and as our eyes met I noticed his upper lip. Like my own, it was dusted with some darkening fuzz, but other than that his face was smooth and he too had the look I knew so well. God—he looked like me! His hair was cut the same, and it was dark like mine and his cheeks were as smooth as mine and even his eyes were brown and intense and penetrating, just like the way mine can be when I am concentrating. I tried not to look at him then, and just pulled the loop around his sack anyway, until the gutstring rested against the skin where his balls grew out of his body. After I had it in place, I grasped his balls and pulled down on them with the other hand. I wasn’t concentrating like I needed to be, and one of his stones slipped past my fingers and I had to grip the sack again, harder this time, finally getting it stretched out and the stones near the bottom where they needed to be. God my hands were shaking! When I had them in place, I took the ends of the leather tie and jerked them hard, snapping the knot closed and cinching his scrotum closed at the top. He grunted into his gag, and his eyes were wide with the pain. He jerked hard then, struggling, and as I saw his ass jerking forward it was like he was fucking the air in a desperate attempt to fuck something, anything, before he was unmanned. As I saw his desperation I knew like me that he had probably never been with a woman, and as I formed that thought I thought of my own virginity and wondered how long I would keep it. I knew I would have my day, but he would never have his because of what I was going to do to him. I froze then, staring at him struggle, knowing his manhood was mine to take, and questioning for the first time my rightness to do so. I empathized with him, thought of his struggles and wondered if our roles were reversed and it was me with my balls tied if I would struggle with the same desperation. My father must have sensed my fear, for suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it, and as I felt him and looked up he nodded. Then he said “Joshua, he is ready. Don’t make him wait too long.”

Time seem to stand still then. I don’t know....maybe it was the movement of the boy that seemed to take my attention. I watched his ass bob up and down, thrusting his dick through the air as he struggled from the tie that held his balls. I decided to use a second string, as it would reduce the blood and I wanted to make the job neat and make my father proud. So I brought up the second gutstring, looping it over his sack, and once there I cinched it up tight and hard. I pulled it so hard it made a snap, and the boy grunted into his gag as he felt the leather bite home. I had tied a lot of balls before, but still I remember his sack especially, even now these years later. It was like I was staring at my own sac, looking at my own balls and knowing somehow that I shouldn’t take them. The boy was still staring back at me, over his shoulder, watching me and looking at me with a pleading in his eyes that I will never be able to forget. The crowd was getting restless, and my hesitation was getting to them and a few were calling out to me to get on with it and get it done.

I pulled my knife out then, took the blade and as I did I could hear the murmur of approval in the crowd. My hand was steadier, but still shaking, and as I brought the knife forward and under the boy, my heart started pounding in my chest. I reached out then with my left hand, and grasped his sac, pulling down on it hard to stretch out the skin between the two ties. I could see the knots were tight, and I also could tell the leather had begun to shrink and I knew that the knots would hold and the blood would be contained. Then, I hooked the curve of the blade under his sac, resting the blade carefully between the two pieces of leather, ready to slice through the thin skin that was all that connected his balls to him. I found the spot, and held the knife....and then I tried to do it....tried to make the pull....but I couldn’t. I don’t know what really happened....but suddenly the combination of things I was seeing was all too much. Maybe it was the boy’s look, or the feeling of his desperation that did it. Perhaps it was his bobbing ass as he jerked it up and down, or the sweat down his back that ran all the way to the crease of his ass. I don’t know what it was, if it was any one thing at all. But suddenly I was HIM, it was me in the bonds, it was my legs trussed out and apart, and it was my prick that was hard and stiff and eager, almost begging for my own tied balls to be taken. I just couldn’t make the slice. I tried again, but my hand wouldn’t move, and I was aware of the impatience of the crowd but I just couldn’t do it. The boy named Michael was suddenly me, in my mind, and his ass was mine and his dick was mine and his balls were mine and I just couldn’t take them.

I have no idea how long I held his balls or held the knife to them. I know that the boy’s eyes were wide open, with his fear, staring at me and pleading for mercy. Slowly, I was aware of my fathers hand, still on my shoulder, squeezing it harder now.....so damn hard and as I became aware of it I heard him say “Joshua, do it....NOW.” Still, I couldn’t move. I have never disobeyed my father, and yet even with his words I couldn’t make the cut. I know more than another minute past, perhaps it was more than a few. Suddenly, my father’s grip grew even harder, and I heard him saying “Take his balls...or else.” I don’t know what he meant, and I’ll never know the threat. But I knew he was serious, and perhaps it was the fear of my father that finally let me do it. I don’t know really. But I do know that suddenly my wrist was moving, and as it did so I remember three things. Yes, I remember three things that can never be forgotten. I will probably remember them until the day I am dead.

The first thing I remember, of the three, is how easily the knife penetrated through the skin, jerking his balls off almost effortlessly. It wasn’t that I hadn’t known the knife would cut them without difficulty. I had known that I know and I had sharpened my knife myself. No, what I had not expected I think was how quick and fast it was done, how one minute they were attached and HIS and the next, how they were not, and were MINE instead. They came off with a single pull of the knife, the steel going through his meat so fast it surprised me, almost as if it hadn’t happened yet but it had. I never even felt resistance, the knife moved so quickly and as I pulled it the balls were just MINE. They were hot in my hand, and as they came loose they were jerking and pulsating, the entire sack jerking even as I held it. Of course the leather contained them, trapping his testicles inside his sack and there wasn’t even a drop of blood anywhere. Still, even so I was just not prepared for the way they wiggled in my hand and pulsated on their own. I had never felt a set of balls that did that before. It was almost as if they had a life of their own, or were still attached to the boy even though they were not. They were hot, and they were pulsating, and as I held them I felt them and it is something I had never expected, as if the boy’s very balls had a life of their own. Yes, that is the first thing I remember, how easy it had been and how they had felt in my hand.

The second thing I remember is how the boy grunted into his gag, just as he began his ejaculation. His entire body spasmed, and he was suddenly thrusting his ball-less cock into the air, all the while he was squirting his young seed into the dirt in front of him. I remember his ejaculation like it was yesterday, the way he shot and spasmed out the end of his manhood. I remember the way his watery seed shot out of his dick so hard that it actually splashed into the dirt beneath him, the grunting in his gag loud and violent, accentuating his desperation as he shot out his jism. The grunting sounds he was making and the ropes of cum he was shooting were timed almost exactly to the spasms of his balls in my hand, even though I had severed the connection and the things could not have been related. It was strange holding his warm balls, feeling them contract as I watched him spew out his seed and empty the last of his manhood into the dirt.

The third thing, the last thing, well it is the one thing I will never be able to forget. Just as I took his balls, I ejaculated into my pants. I had no idea that was going to happen, and hadn’t realized that I was close. But as I took his balls I began to shoot, almost at that very instant the boy beneath me began to do the same. Together we shot our loads, two fourteen year old boys dumping our manhood and grunting out our ecstasy together, almost as one. Of course, for the slave it was his last orgasm, the last of his seed pumping into the dirt, and the pleasure of his orgasm was overtaken with the pain of his castration. For me, there was only the pleasure of the moment and so my semen literally flooded into my pants, shooting out of my prick violently and the load so great that even though I willed to stop it I could not. As I held Michael’s balls and felt them quivering, my own balls pulsated between my legs, and the flood from my dick was continuous and greater than anything I had ever done before. Of course my father, with his hand on my shoulder, felt my entire body convulsing, and as he held me he felt my orgasm and I knew that he knew it was happening even as I was shooting my wad. I tried to bite my lips, to contain the sounds, but as I heard the slave grunting into his gag my own grunts escaped my lips and I think my mouth came open and my eyes rolled back as I jerked my head skyward with the feeling. The orgasm was just too intense to stop it, and my prick was driven as if on its own and was not in my control. I know I had never had a feeling like it, before or sense. I would like to tell you that the crowd didn’t notice. Yes, even now I wish I could tell you that, but alas, I cannot. As my dick spewed out my seed, the end of my prick was pressed up against the thin cotton of my pants, and so as I shot the material was flooded and I heard later that the white of my semen literally spewed through the material and was ejaculated from my pants almost as a spray. Afterwards I know that my trousers were certainly stained, and the rounded bulge from the tip of my prick was so hard and big that everyone saw it and what was coming out of it. I do not have a memory of the exact feeling, but I do know that the crowd laughed....a roar really, and as I looked over at them hoping they were looking at the slave it was clear they were not. Even as I looked and my eyes locked with theirs, my dick pulsated on, the semen still flooding into my pants and as it was happening the look on my face turning to horror as the humiliation took me and my faced flushed red with the shame. Suddenly, my father was laughing at me, a deep laugh that cut through to my very soul. As he laughed, I burst into tears, and as I cried the boy I had cut was suddenly crying too, our tears like one although our reasons different. It was just too much. Dropping my knife, I turned from the crowd and I ran from the square, the laughter of the crowd following me and ringing in my ears long after I was gone. I ran all the way home, through the center of the city and as fast as I could. I ran by many people as I ran for home, and as I passed them they seemed to all stare and gawk and I ran by. It wasn’t until I had reached home and entered my bedroom that I realized I still held the boy’s still warm balls in my hand. Yes, I’ll never forget the day I became a cutter and learned about humility all in the same day. I’m sure that those in the city that were there that day will never forget it either.

[Authors note: If you liked this story I would REALLY appreciate a short note letting me know. Thanks. [email protected]]