Lucinda's Autumn Hervest

Serial castratrix develops virus which causes males to want 
castration,neuters 20 males at a camp.

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LUCINDA’S AUTUMN HARVEST  
by Flash

Do I really hate the plum tree?  

No.  

Do I want to hurt the plum tree?  

No.  

Can I stand seeing the plums dangling there just waiting to be 
harvested?

No.

As Mae West said, “I never give into temptation unless I can’t resist 
it.”

If the tree produces just two plums hanging in a market bag all 
wrapped up for me to carry away, and the bag is hanging on the branch 
heavy with the weight of the plums, and they are the only plums the 
tree will ever produce, should I prune the bag right off, glad
the tree is finally shorn of it’s fruit which it produced for the 
very shearing?

Oh , yes.

But when the plums come off, the tree’s no longer a plum tree, now is 
it?

I love being around men, it’s like being in a plum orchard.

Lucinda is back, ready to report again.  

*******************************

I lop scrotums off, because they are there for the lopping.  I don’t 
have time for bilateral orchiecotmies, that’s no fun, just not good 
enough.  Now, as some of you know, my usual style is to steal a man’s 
bag of balls, trick him, take them off so he doesn’t even know
they are gone until I’m a hundred miles away, but yesterday, 
yesterday, I de-scrotumed twenty males, none of whom desired or 
wanted to get castrated, had ever thought of it, yet all of whom 
wanted me to do it and were glad I cut their balls off.

Bet you want to know how I managed that one, don’t you?

I will tell you, Lucinda will tell you.

I’m a nurse.  Now some people say I resemble the actress Susan 
Sarandon, OK, I’ll accept that.  Fortunately for me, while the male 
establishment successfully locked me out of the medical establishment 
as far as becoming a doctor, they weren’t counting on my
personal brilliance and late-coming inheritance, but believe you me, 
I now personally hold the equivalence of several advanced scientific 
degrees in biochemistry and molecular genetics, and...well, when you 
have free time and a propensity for self-study and your own lab, not 
to mention the desire to deball as many males as possible, there’s
almost nothing you can’t do.

It was late one night in my lab in Vermont which I have upstairs in 
my wooden “cabin.” Okay, it’s a great big wonderful wooden house, but 
I like to call it my cabin.  My theories and testing had taken me a 
little over a year, but through trial and error, and careful -- and

I must say gleeful -- genetic manipulation, was getting very close to 
achieving my intended result.  I was tired, that way you often get 
when you’re on the verge of a break-through, but the image that 
finally appeared on the screen of my electron microscope jolted me 
awake with adrenalin.  I could see from the very molecular

structure that this configuration had to be correct.



Do you know what Lucinda has done?  She has taken a very ordinary 
childhood disease virus which tends to affect males more than 
females, manipulated it so that it only affects males, increased its 
tendency to affect the testicles, altered its structure so that no 
male could be immune, played with its properties, transformed it in 
truly exquisite fashions.



Yes, boy and girls, I’m talking about a very, very literally advanced 
case of ... the mumps.  



Oh, gee, did I mention?  



It’s highly, highly communicable. 



As in airborne-waterborne contagious.



As in worse than anthrax..  





 .*************************************



Yes, it was too easy, too perfect.  A position as nurse in one of 
those all-male, year round-camp-school things,  the kind that doesn’t 
close down for the summer, you know ,for the born-rich perpetual post-
boy scouts of the Eastern seabord.  Of course I was hired right over 
the phone, and I drove up the gravel road through New York lake 
country day before yesterday.   Got there about lunchtime.   It was 
pretty, the central little area, with its little birchwood buildings 
next to the lake, and so was the director I deballed within

forty minutes of our initial encounter.  He was early thirties, the 
yuppie type, you know that classic 80-’s look, very mannequin-
masculine and intelligent looking, close -cropped blond hair around 
the ears and neck, almost longish on top and parted down one side, de

rigueur thin silver glasses.



We chatted a bit, I sat down signed the final hiring papers, reached 
into my purse and withdrew a little perfume sprayer and pretended to 
accidentally have had the nozzle pointed toward him rather than me as 
I made a coy movment as though intending to perfume my own neck., 
when of course I was directing my virus toward him.  Just the

kind of unexpected thing that men accept, even if it’s inappropriate 
behavior during the sighing of an employment acceptance contract, 
because they just don’t know what to do or think.



“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry Dave.!  I don’t believe I did that!” 
My hand fluttered over my mouth in feline girlish embarrassment.  
Silly me.



Dave smiled in befuddled dismissal. We talked some more, I’m nothing 
if not charming, and I kept stealing glances at my watch, twenty 
minutes would do it, and I timed my conversation accordingly, giving 
the super quick virus time to multiply..



Now, what my genetically designed virus should do is this, and I was 
eager to see it work.  It would center on the testicles and make them 
feel extra-ordinarily heavy without causing any actual swelling, it 
would loosen the spermatic cords, and, true-stroke of genius, 
genetically announce itself into the brain of the host as the foreign 
agent that it is, which would provoke an unexplained but insistent 
need in the mind of the host that the testicles just must simply come 
off because they are foreign and don’t belong.  It wouldn’t be 
perceived as a hypnotic or drugged state of mind, but a real desire 
to slough the invaders off, which (balls) would be increasingly be 
perceived as inordinately heavy and ever-lengthening.



Do you follow?  The balls are feeling frantically hyper-present and 
heavy, the body feels almost nothing but them, the mind can’t stand 
their presence, the virus causes the host to really need and want 
them off, and the only cure is...me.



“You know what Dave?” I said when it was time.

“What’s that, Lucinda?”

“I’m going to cut your big balls off.”



He blinked then blushed because of course he heard what I said but of 
course could not register that I had actually said that.



“I...” he started to say, then he leaned back in his chair and gasped 
a confused breath. and his hands shot to his belt convulsively.



“Oh my god! I...”



“You have to take your pants off, Dave.”



He was standing up still gasping like a fish thrown up on shore.  He 
wasn’t following my orders, he was so caught up in the disease that 
his pants did have to come off.  He stood up and both of us pulled 
his tan corduroy pants and jockey shorts down.  His big plump

yuppie blond scrotum literally tumbled out of the shorts, I saw it 
descend even more, finally released from it confines, saw the cords 
lengthen.  He stood with his legs askew as much as possible with feet 
trapped in pants and underwear at feet.  I could tell he didn’t

want his thighs touching his balls.  His long penis was swollen in 
partial wobbling erection..



“Don’t worry Dave, I’ll cut them off you, I want them.”



“I...I...off...I...off”



He looked so confused.



I cupped his balls up in my palm, he moaned, it must have been a 
relief from the weight.  



‘Up on the desk, quick get up the desk.”



He complied. Neither of us had time to waste.  Papers and desk 
objects flew to the floor. He scrambled up on his hands and knees, 
pants still at ankles.  



“Uhh...please...please...get them off me..” he moaned and panted.



“Don’t worry Dave, I’m going to love cutting them off.”



He was shaking his hips back and forth as though to jiggle them off 
himself.  If they hadn’t been low-hangers before, they sure were now.



“Please....” he moaned.



I  got out my special castrating device from my purse, slipped the 
bands up over the quiveringly puckered fat plum bag, swollen with 
rich over-ripe musky male plums.  I was poised to harvest.



“Oh, god, god, gut my balls off!”



“Why, Dave,” I said, releasing the first mechanism, “it would be my 
great pleasure.”  



The device sprang shut at the top and pinched the scrotum tight right 
under his visible puckered anus.



“Say ii one more time, Dave.”



“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnn........ohhhhhhhhhhh...........cut... 
my ...balls... off...they...”



I held tight and pushed the second lever.  The curved scalpel-thin 
blade sprung forward, forced from its home from the front of his 
pinched scrotal sac and eager to snap and join its only other home in 
the slot near my thumb. It sliced, the medical staples flew into

flesh at the same moment, and Dave’s big severed and stapled shut-at-
the-top scrotum fell through the device and into my purse.  No 
prostethic testicles were possible, the whole bag was gone.



“Oh, Jesus!”  he moaned.



He fell forward and panted with relief, the incredible virus 
frustration had ended and I had yet trophy.  He hadn’t needed pain 
killers, so overwhelmingly distracting had been

the fierce onslaught of the viral condition. I lifted his balls up 
out of my purse and took the them around front so he could see them.



Relieved of them, but slowing starting to return to his regular 
mental state, red shame started to cover his yuppie face.  He had 
tears of heavy exhaustion in his eyes.



“You don’t have any balls, Dave.  I’ve neutered you.  Your balls have 
been cut off, and I’m taking them with me.  You’re a little gelded 
eunuch now.”  His penis had shrunk to its smallest size.  In one 
month it’d be that way forever.  Good.



He couldn’t protest, he hadn’t been hypnotized, he remembered 
everything and had actually wanted me to cut them off, and I had.  He 
would me sore tomorrow.  I helped him up off the table, pulled up his 
pants over his gap and little dick and led him over to a couch.



“Here, take this.” I said and give him a powerful sedative.  I wanted 
him out, because there were lots of males to prune, and I didn’t 
wanted any trouble from Dave.



Not that there was much likelihood of that. There isn’t a male group 
in the world who would follow a leader with no balls, that’s a 
contraction in terms.  I locked the door before I pulled it shut 
behind me and walked back out into the bright sunshine toward my

car.  I lifted up the trunk, opened my purse, and dropped Dave’s 
balls into a dry-iced tackle box, shut it and the trunk.  I would 
encase it in acrylic later like I do all my trophies.



I opened my purse and withdrew my another virus vial, this time truly 
spraying my hands, neck, and blouse with a milder, more modified 
version of my infectious agent.  There were two laughing young boys 
coming friskily up the stone path from the lake.  I could

see their baskets through the baseball uniforms they were 
wearing. “Excuse me, boys” I said  walking over to them with extended 
hand, fake badge and smile, ready to snip them right there, “I’m from 
the Department of Health and I need to know where the camp

water-supply is.  Do you think you could help me?”





************************************



It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how rambunctious young males 
can be, they immediately respond to authority and get flattered by 
the need to help a woman seeking information.  Before me, and 
infected even as they breathed the air around us, stood two

young boys, 18, 20, hard to tell.  One was brown-haired and lanky, 
about six feet tall, the other decidedly husky and plump, red-auburn 
in hair and coloration.  I soon learned the taller was named Tom and 
the shorter Matt as they led me round to the old shed which

contained the water supply cistern, Tom dragging the baseball bat to 
the ground as he walked, it was Matt who had the glove and softball 
in this little team of two.  Their testicles were going to come so 
off.



They left me by the cistern and walked off into a nearby field to 
resume their game.  I heard the bat connect with the softball now and 
then heard the little thud of the catch, but busied myself with 
distinguishing the intake supply pipe from the outside source -- the

town?  the lake? -- from the main outflow pipe on into the camp’s 
plumbing.  Found the valves I wanted, emptied two more vials right 
into the supply, knew it was going to the showers, to the dishes, to 
the laundry, to the taps, to the faucets, to the kitchens, to the

hoses, everywhere.



It was three-thirty now and the September sun was low and goldening.  
I folded my arms and watched the boys play in that easy non-pressured 
and smooth way they will do when not competing.  I began to notice 
that Tom was beginning to make a lot of crotch adjustments, seemed to 
be adjusting himself after every swing.  Then Matt began to do

the same.



This milder virus was seeping into them, slowly transforming them.



“You boys are supposed to be playing ball, not playing with your 
balls!”  I shouted out to them with cupped hands across the field.



They blushed, laughed but continued.  I headed from the shed out into 
the field.  



“Are you boys getting too big for your britches?  Come over here, 
both of you, I want to talk to you..



They complied, and we all met midway.



“Tom, look me in the eye.  I asked you a question.  Are you getting 
too big for your britches?”



His Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat and there could only be one 
answer to the question.



“Yes, ma’am.”



“And you, Matt?



Matt turned even redder.



“Yes, ma’am.”



“Okay, well then boys, take your britches off, both of you,  and you 
can play better, don’t you think?”



The virus was sending it signals into their minds, slowly, the desire 
to reject the foreign objects was seeping in, making my words sound 
logical, correct, they couldn’t resist this.



Tom quickly denuded himself from the waist down, the baseball pants 
and jock strap came off quickly and he stepped out of them.  Like 
many tall and lanky males, he had a particularly big and pendant set 
of genitals, a long hose-like penis and low hangers which, even 
without the virus effect would have shown the snippable cords in all 
their loose three-inch length, the rolling, lolling testicles visible 
in their movements with his every slightest motion.  Just a little 
brown pubic tuft, that’s all.  Matt, clearly the less athletic of the 
two, pulled down his pants and supporter but was unable on one leg to 
get the items off and over his socks and sneakers, and I enjoyed the 
sight of his struggle and he had to fall on his back, lift his knees 
toward his chest and maneuver them off over his sock and sneakers.  
He was small genitaled, maybe only five-inch penis, but it stood up in

little ramrod erection with a clear drop of boy moisture glistening 
at its little eye, his little hairless plump plums were going to be a 
true pleasure to harvest.



The boys now wore only caps, baseball jerseys, socks and sneakers.  



“You know,” I said, “when I was a little girl I wanted to play 
baseball, but they wouldn’t let me.  They said baseball and sports 
were only for boys, because boys had balls, that’s why they played 
games with balls.  They wouldn’t’t let me play.  So, go ahead, let me

watch the boys with balls play ball.”



Tom and Matt went out and played.  It was fun seeing them like that.  
At first they did well, as though freeing them from their pants gave 
them extra maneuverability, their white legs dancing free in the 
breeze.  But the virus was working rapidly now, and Tom’s scrotum was 
hanging lower and lower, it swung and bobbled all which ways.  Matt’s

seemed to be puffing up, and they were starting to look confused, 
missing swings, dropping catches.  They were breathing heavily.



“OK, boys, game’s over.  Come over here.  You know what’s going to 
happen don’t you?”  I had taken my castrating device out of my purse.



Tom could barely walk, he held his aching-to-come-off testicles 
cupped in his hand and his head was rolling back, his eyes squinted, 
he was starting to gasp.  



“I’m going to cut’em right off, Tom, you know that, don’t you?  I’m 
going to de-boy you right out here in the field, you’ll never need a 
supporter again.”



His big hose penis shot up in a second and compulsively spewed out a 
torrent of sperm all over the grass.



He was helpless to stop me, he wanted them cut off so bad.



“Are they too much for you, Tom?”



“Yes...oh....yes...”



“Don’t worry, mama’s here to help.  Put your balls right in these 
loops...that’s right. Now, say goodbye to ‘em, and to 
masculinity, ‘cuz you, my friend...’



I triggered the mechanism, cut his big arrogant balls off and held 
the bag in my hands..



“...are emasculated.”



The former male bent forward from the waist and put his knees 
together and cupped both hands to his gap, as though in parody 
imitation of a ridiculously effeminate sissy, he staggered around a 
bit and fell to the grass in the fetal position, his legs drawn up,  
his fingers fluttering in both relief and disbelief around his 
shockingly naked descrotumed groin as they encountered only a medical 
staple instead of balls. At that moment the most heterosexual man in 
the world have screwed the helpless little eunuch’s ass right down

through the grass to China.



His balls -- no my balls now -- were in my purse.



“OK, Matt, your turn, get on your knees over there, on that rock.”



Now Matt I liked.  He got on his knees and showed me his big 
vulnerable ass and little scrotum.  He was one of those boys, who 
while definitely very male, due to a natural softness and huskiness 
had always been on the verge of being the little fat boy, not quite

but almost, the kind of male who, when he was ten had probably been 
told he had an ass like a girl, but who had grown and matured into a 
likable macho type with the kind of musculature which is firm and 
steady under the skin, never streaked and roped.  And there was that 
tight puffy little bag of male fruit, and when it came off, he would 
no longer be on the verge of being the fat boy, that’s what he was 
gong to be, the testosterone cut off.  A red-headed fat boy with no 
balls.  The five-inch dick?  In a year they’d need tweezers and a 
microscope to find it.



How wonderful.



“I want to cut those little balls off so bad, Matt.”

 

Matt shook his rump and the plump plum bag did it’s best to wobble.



“I’ll bet your Mom doesn’t like it when you come all over her sheets 
at home, does she?”



Matt answered in a voice muffled by the right biceps of his cradled 
arm and by his inability to gain auditory feedback with his left ear 
pressed smashingly flat against the rock.  Nice to see a de-pantsed 
American boy in the Islamic prayer position,  the ideal for

castration.



“Nnn..no.”



“And it wasn’t right, what they said to me, was it, that I couldn’t 
play baseball ‘ ’cuz only boys had balls, was it?”



“Nnn...no.”



“So, now, I have to take boy’s balls off, snip them off, don’t I?”



“Yyy...yes.”



“You won’t ever play ball again, will you?



“Nnn...no.”



“The other boys with balls aren’t going to let you on their team if 
you don’t have balls, will they?”



“Nnn...no.”



“You want me to snip them off you, don’t you Matt?”



I was reaching into my purse -- the thing we women have in our 
purses! -- for another castration device I use for tight-little 
balled males.  It nuts them.  If there’s not enough scrotum, this is 
what I use.  Goes right down the center, separates the testicles, 
lasers cauterizing as the blade does its work.



“Yyy....yes.”



Poor baby.



I  split his little scrotum, then took out my pliers and snip, snip, 
got my little Matt plums, then took out my sewing kit and fixed him 
tight and clean.  I threw the testicles off to the side for the 
squirrels.  Lucinda does not keep naked individual testicles, she 
only acrylics entire bags of balls.



I don’t usually do this, but...I kissed the former boy on his ear.





*************************************





I neutered 17 more the next morning.





I love plums, can’t tolerate that dangling, will lop ‘em off.



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