By justoneguy

“I’m so glad that you could stop by. I’m sure you will find my collection very interesting. As you can understand, I don’t share it with very many persons. So you really should consider yourself quite lucky.”

The finely dressed gentleman patted your shoulder as he flipped the door handle and pushed the heavy oak door open. A large fireplace on the far wall lighted the room inside. Above it hung a large oil painting of a man who looked very similar to your host, although older and more finely dressed. It must have been the old man of the family, long dead now, but the founder of the family fortune—the vastness of which maintained the host’s lavish lifestyle, and its peculiarities.

The roaring fire cast a warm glow about the room that bounced yellow orange glows of the polished lamps and light fixtures. The walls of the room were a deeply stained fine wood paneling. Expensive works of art, some of which you vaguely recognized as famous, hung on the walls. Leather wingback chairs and small coffee tables dotted the room. The floor was a firmly woven Indian rug of the finest quality. The host stepped through the door, and you followed him, taking in the sights and smells of the study as you with eyes darting like a child’s.

But it wasn’t until you stepped completely into the room and turned to the back wall did you see the real treasures, the trophies, the unique decorations that had made this secret room both famous and notorious among that small circle of businessmen wealthy and powerful enough to be trusted.

“Here you have it,” the host said with a smile. He waved is hands out in a gesture of display.

Your eyes grew wide in amazement. You had heard, but you had never seen. And now the sight of it, the knowledge that it was indeed no myth or exaggeration, left you thunderstruck. Before you on the wall hung wooden plaques, each more or less the same size, stained dark brown. At the top of each plaque was a shelf that stuck out at a right angle from the wall, about 4 inches deep. And from those shelves hung the severed manhood of dozens of unfortunate men. The position of the shelf and the size of the plaque was dictated by the space required to frame the dangling trophy perfectly against the wood. At the bottom edge of each plaque was a shiny golden tag engraved with identifying information of the trophy’s former owners. And on some, resting on the shelf from which the treasures hung, were particular momentos of the capture.

You took a step forward, putting your fingers to your mouth—an involuntary gesture of awe.

“Go ahead,” the host said. “Examine them more closely. I’ll pour us some wine.”

He left your side, and you walked forward, right to the unique wall itself. And you began to look, to examine closely the prizes spread before you. The all looked fresh, those hanging trophies, as if they had been snatched right between the poor owner’s legs. They almost looked alive in the warm glow of the fire. They were preserved so well, not dried up or shriveled at all, but naturally as if still dangling from their master’s underbody. But they were now dangled from a shelf of wood.

The first that caught your eye was a notorious set. The gold tag read “Joshua Detter, 18.” A fabric letter from a High School leather jacket rested on the shelf above. It was a red and yellow “S”. You knew the story behind this one, how this high school boy had tackled the host’s son in a football game and broken his leg. It wasn’t long after graduation that this same boy, Joshua, was jumped by the host’s “collectors” and his organs removed. The poor lad was nullified, and the police never found out who did it. The never did.

But now, complete with the young man’s letter, the proud bits that once made him a male hung from the wooden plaque. You took a moment to examine them, to think about what the poor young man had lost. The penis hung down, circumcised, with a few gentle folds of skin gathered behind the flared pale mushroom head. The organ was about 3.5” long as it hung—average. But it was a full sausage, with a healthy thickness even in its flaccid state. You wondered how man times that organ had been in the young man’s fingers as he held it to piss. You thought about the times the lad had taken his manhood for granted. It had been always there, always filling up the front of his pants, tucked away under his clothes. He had jacked it, of course, and doubtless pushed that tube of male flesh into a willing high school girl at least a few times before it was all ended. That had been his personal flesh, the specialized tube that made him a man and provided the amazing pleasure of his sex.

Behind that soft tube of flesh hung the unfortunately lad’s baby-makers. His plump balls filled his slightly tanned sac. The flesh molded to the smooth curve of the ripe orbs. Little brown hairs still dusted the bag of flesh, a sign of the maturity of its contents. The poor boy’s entire package, penis balls and sack, hung on this man’s wall on a plaque as naturally as they had once hung between his strong masculine legs. And behind them on the shelf hung something else—the lad’s white jock strap. The plastic cup that had once protected his valuable jewels was still lodged in the fabric pocket at the front of the strap. You imagined those thin elastic cords around the high school footballer’s butt, the stretch of the fabric in the front as the plastic cup was held over his dangling treasures. Like all men, the lad had been careful to protect his valuables from the rough and tumble of sport. But he hadn’t protected them from the host. And now, there they hung, for you to see, disembodied from that strong young man, and hanging like the trophy of human manhood that it was.

You couldn’t resist. You had to make sure it was real, to see for sure that it wasn’t fake. You reached out your right hand and cup those hanging treasures—what had once been the powerful manhood of an 18-year-old young man. The twin orbs felt firm and the flesh a little rubbery. But the sac still had looseness and flexibility. You moved the package with your hand in a way that, had the parts still been attached to the young man, would have brought a cry of pain and a twisting for safety. But these parts had long since been lost by their original owner. And the ripe plums just shifted inside the soft bag. You moved your fingers to touch the penis. It felt like a cold sausage in your hand—this flesh that had once been the most important part of Joshua Detter’s strong young male body. Then you pulled your hand away. And with a playful smile, you flicked his hang eggs with your finger. You watched the dangly parts of an unfortunate young nullo swing against the wooden plaque that now held it. You figure the poor lad should have been more careful whom he tackled in the big game.

To be continued……

SPECIAL NOTE: to all the folks out there that liked this story and the idea, I would very much like to see it continued. I have a few ideas for other plaques that can be found on the wall, and I hope you do too. I plan to write a few more myself, but I would really enjoy it if others would try their hand at describing a plaque, the parts, and who originally owned them. It could be a fun thing, and easy given the length of the original story. Just continue on is the same vain:

“You move on to the next plaque. It caught your eye because…..”

Could be an opening line. Do some plaques have treasures that are very big or very small? Are some of the trophies circumcised and some not? Are some erect? If so, how were they harvested to maintain the stiffy? Do some plaques hold multiple trophies? Perhaps best friends or a sports team harvested at the same time? 3 brothers on the same plaque? Perhaps a father and his sons.

The only stipulation is that all characters be over 18. Other than that, I really hope some other inventive folks out there will take this idea and run with it. As a way for quick, descriptive, exciting stories without a ton of set up.

I really hope to read more soon. Good Luck

Justoneguy