By justoneguy

The judge’s arm swung down to his side, and he became as still as a statue. But at once, Jeremy and Anthony dropped into the instinctive wrestler's posture of readiness. They faced each other at a slight angle, arms reaching forward but not too far from the body, one leg held back a little so as to provide a base from which to spring forward at a moment’s notice. For a few moments Jeremy and Anthony circled each other warily. The crowd, which had grown respectfully silent at the judge’s signal, now grew restless. A dull muttering of chatter as they talked amongst themselves about what was happening. A few voices called out encouragement or taunts. Then Anthony pounced. He lunged forward, jerking his body with a snake’s speed, grabbed the younger man’s leg just above the ankle. He pulled upwards and sideways, and neatly yanked Jeremy off his feet. The crowd roared, and some of the army men sitting around Sarah began their chant again. “SEVEN FIVE TWO, SEVEN FIVE TWO!”

Jeremy felt the mat slam into his right hip as his weight fell to the floor. Anthony had twisted him over as he went down, and on the second impact he landed face down on the mat. Jeremy felt the rough canvass of the mat sting his cheek. He was on his stomach, his leg still controlled by the soldier. Anthony pushed his Jeremy’s leg forward, forcing his body to bend at the waist. His nylon covered butt stuck into the air. Before he could react to the sudden and humiliating change in position, Anthony was on top of him. Without releasing his grip on Jeremy’s' leg, now bent backwards towards his head at an acutely painful angle, the strong soldier stretched himself out on his youthful opponent’s back, reaching forward with one arm to begin a pinning combination that would turn Jeremy helplessly over on to his shoulders. And hold him there until He squeaked defeat. Short work indeed.

But Jeremy wasn't thinking of that. All he could think about was how the match was already over. How he hadn’t lasted one move. How it was all over for him. His cheek burned and his leg ached. Other than that, all he could feel was Anthony’s ample basket pressing with a firm softness into the small of his back. All he could hear was the soldier's rough breathing close behind his ear, almost the sounds he made when putting it to Sarah. All he could smell was the first faint must of sweat beginning to flow in the soldier's hairy armpits.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sarah. Sweat was already forming on his brow, and the salty moistness clouded his eyes, which were squinted with strain. And he heard the chants in his ears. “SEVEN FIVE TWO!” and “CHIPMUNK! CHIPMUNK!”

With a sudden surge, Jeremy stamped his free leg on the mat. On an instinct of self-preservation, he squirmed and struggled from the soldier’s grip, kicking his trapped leg free and turning his upper body out of the tightening half-nelson Anthony was applying. The soldier’s Hands slipped from the nylon singlet and Jeremy twisted completely free. The crowd roared their approval. Perhaps it would be a match after all. Jeremy shook his head a little to clear his mind as he crouched and prepared for another assault. Anthony was undisturbed. It would have been nice to take the kid down in one move, just to rub in the humiliation a little bit more. But a longer match would serve just as well.

Anthony lunged again, catching Jeremy around the waste. The younger man twisted and grabbed as the soldier’s ankle. He had it in his grasp, but Anthony broke off before he could throw him off balance. The soldier sweated a lot: rivulets of salty liquid run from his pits and down over the hard, singlet covered muscles of his chest and stomach. The green nylon of his army singlet darkened in spots. Jeremy was doing a little better. His cheek stung and his leg ached. But he hadn’t expended as much energy in these first moments of the fight. Anthony was clearly stronger than he was, but was also more eager to end things quickly. He crouched again in the read position. The crowd quieted somewhat as the match drew to a lull and the combatants circled each other. Jeremy let one of his arms drop to his leg, as if to rub the soreness in the lull of the fight. And Anthony pounced. He went in low, grabbing for Jeremy’s legs, and caught the younger man’s thigh. But Jeremy was ready. He twisted his leg and grappled with Anthony’s midsection. The soldier was taller and lankier than Jeremy was, and his waist was smaller. Jeremy pushed with all his weight against that one is of his opponent’s body. Anthony had expected to be pushing powerfully against Jeremy by then, forcing him to the ground. But the younger man was now at his side, not his front, pushing mightily against his flank. The soldier toppled like a tower onto his left hip. The crowd roared its approval. Anthony felt the weight of the other young man on him, on his stomach, pushing his back to the ground. He forced his shoulders up to avoid the pin, but found that Jeremy’s gripping hands were firmly clamped to his wrists. Anthony twisted and twisted, trying to gain leverage against the mat. The roar of the crowd was in his ears. He heard the chant: “CHIMPUNK, CHIPMUNK!” from the crowd. But it seemed to him now to be a chant of surprised admiration for the underdog rather than an insult to his manliness. He was losing the crowd. God, he was close to losing the match.

Jeremy pressed his body onto the soldier. The musky smell from Anthony’s hairy pits wafted into his nose. But it didn’t matter. His mind and body were on fire, his eyes ablaze. He never thought he could do this good in the fight, get in a position to maybe even win, not just show. He applied more pressure and tried to shift into an even better position.

Anthony struggled underneath him. He held his shoulders up and twisted his arms. He tried to plant his feet for leverage, but the punk tugged them loose. He felt the punk’s crotch push into his hard abs. He could feel the button of his dick, the wide nub of his penis head poking like a thumb into his straining stomach muscles. He felt the compact fullness of his opponent’s balls there, too—the only part of the young man up to manly stature apparently. As Jeremy struggled on top of him, he released one of his hands and grappled instead with his thigh, trying to link his hands together and push Anthony’s shoulders to the mat. As he did so, Anthony felt Jeremy’s forearm pressure his soft yielding crotch. The soft fullness of his manhood compressed uncomfortably, but not painfully. He tried to use his now free arm to his advantage, but his range of motion was limited since he had to keep his shoulder off the mat to stay in the game. In his straining, he whispered out some words. “You trying to feel me up, boy,” he said. “You feeling what you never felt before? A real man’s parts?” Jeremy seemed to ignore him. He just pressed and adjusted. “I’m gonna cut your fuckin Chipmunk balls off, you little-dicked punk.” Anthony’s neck muscles strained as he forced the words out. And they hit home.

For a moment, just a moment, Jeremy loosened his grip as the concept struck home. He felt the massive softness of the soldier’s groin, know that what was in slung in that nylon was of the same kind as his own—except in scope. And he knew that it had been inside Sarah—deeper than he had ever touched. In that moment of wondering thought, just a moment, Anthony broke the lock and spun over, twisting his weight over Jeremy and gaining a measure of control. The force of pressure Jeremy had been applying was now turned against him. His chest hit the mat hard as Anthony turned the tables. It was possible that the soldier could have pinned him in that moment. Jeremy, in his sudden bewilderment at having lost the advantage, might not have been able to muster the will to resist a pin. Certainly, that is what many in the audience expected to happen. The chant of “SEVEN FIVE TWO, SEVEN FIVE TWO!” rang out in the deep soldier’s voices once more.

But Anthony’s blood was hot from the unexpected reversal of the match. His ego was bruised that he hadn’t made shorter work of his wily opponent. The raging memory of the punk’s insults to Sarah and the wash of beer over his uniform at the party flashed into his mind. And seeing Jeremy sprawling and stunned, he instinctively lunged forward, pushing the youth out of the red ring with enough force that he slid four inches on the mat.

The crowd roared in surprised glee. Anthony stood to his full height and stretched his tightened muscles. Jeremy lay on his back, in between the red and blue lines on the mat. The judge had run to him and stood over him. He could see the two other judges out of the corners of his eyes. And the rail was there too, in front of the screaming and cheering audience. The choice was his. He had made a good show. And he might have won. But now he was on his back. Sarah and Cathy and the soldiers sitting around them were directly in front of him, framed by his own knees and the victory rail at the edge of the mat. Anthony walked up toward him, towering over with a smirk on his face. Jeremy’s eyes looked up at him, still bewildered by his reversal of fortune. Then his eyes shifted to the cheering crowd. He saw Tommy there in the crowd, clapping, but also shacking his head as if to say “no.” All Jeremy had to do was lift his legs up, up toward Sarah, Cathy, and the soldier, lift them high and wide as if to say “I’m a beaten man, like a woman waiting to get fucked by the stronger.” That’s all he had to do.

He closed his eyes, and with a jerk of his body, he lurched from the mat. He turned toward Anthony, who smiled as the crowd roared and cheered behind them. Jeremy leaned backwards, as if to stretch his back. His little dick poked out in his singlet. He reached forward and touched his toes, stretching his sore leg muscles. He pulled his head from side to side, feeling the muscles pop. Then he looked straight at Anthony and said: “OK, lets go.”

My god, the bellow and howl of the crowd in that moment! The cheers came from all quarters as the combatants crouched once more and began to circle. Their eyes were fixed on each other now with an intensity not seen in the match, even at the beginning. Several members of the audience pulled out cell phones and began to tell friends close by to come to the gym. A REAL bout was on. Others just snapped a few pictures of the circling young fighters to email later, when they told their friends about the match over dinner. Who would have thought these young men would show such spunk? Real Bouts, the kind that end in one winner and one eunuch were usually confined to cheating spouses challenging their wives lovers.

The only two in the crowd not cheering at that moment were Sarah and Tommy. It seemed reckless to Tommy for his friend, who had worked so hard and made such an unexpectedly good showing in the match to risk all now. He had proved that he was a tough guy, a man, who could hold his own. No doubt, his display would have washed away much of the cruel joking and bad blood that had plagued him. But now, if he lost, he really would have to face jeers that he wasn’t a man. And worse—these jeers really would be true, not childish insults.

As for Sarah, when it came right down to it, she loved both the warriors. Seeing him struggle in the ring and fight with heart had reawaken tender feelings for Jeremy. She no longer hungered for him as she once did, but the pleasant innocent connection of their youthful courtship was still strong in her heart. She didn’t want to see him hurt or humiliated further. And Anthony was her lover, the strong young beast for whom her womanly womb yearned even as she sat in the stands. Seeing his sweaty body, his straining muscles, it was almost like when his naked body pressed on top of hers. Except now he was in combat almost literally for his life. She could see the intensity in his face. He was no longer fighting for her honor, but was in his own world, compelled to action by his own masculine drives. It wasn’t much different from when orgasm overtook him in their nightly humpings. At first, he was always so focused on her. But as his own pleasure overpowered him, his eyes would almost glaze over and his unrestrained pounding and thrusting would seem more out of his on unrestrained drives. God, she wanted him to fuck her so badly in that moment. Seeing him there, grabbing at his opponent, both twisting and grappling as if their manhood depended on every split second, instinctive movement they made. The thought struck her that she had intimate knowledge of both those young men. She had felt both their male tools pump and slurp into her body, felt both their sweaty backs as their muscles strained and flexed, held both their panting heads. And, if that connection between them and her wasn’t strong enough, those two, her men, knew the same secrets of her body—the sloping hood of her clit, the tiny mole on her left breast, the slickness of the walls of her pussy. And now, as she watched them grapple, pant, and struggle with each other, she began to think of the intimate knowledge they had of each other, the feelings of each other’s struggling bodies—even the inadvertent compressive touched of each other’s private male parts. The bond of desperate struggle and secret fear that bound her two men together in that moment. Her guys, her lovers. Her friend Cathy was on her feet beside her, aggressively screaming and yelling at the combatants from the stands along with the soldiers around them. But secretly, as she watched her men and her eyes moistened with fearful tears for the ending of the match, Sarah’s hand slipped onto her lap, under her coat, and began to finger herself.

The two combatants didn’t have the luxury of reflecting on their situation. They were in a match—if not for their actual lives—for their lives as they had known them. Their faces were both grim, tense, locked onto each other. The crowd seemed to grow distant, the yelling just part of the background. The circled each other, shifting closer and closer back to the center of the mat, away from the dreaded blue ring. It wasn’t really part of a strategy for either of them. It was simply the natural instinct to remove themselves from danger. And the blue circle around the edge of the mat was the greatest danger they had ever faced in their young lives. To be forced over it by their opponent would have been to forfeit their manhood. Everything that made them what they were—the gender, their masculinity, their sexuality—would be taken or spared at the whim of the one who had beaten them. And neither trusted the other with so precious and fragile a charge.

Anthony was being more cautious now. His hope for a swift, humiliating defeat for the kid was gone. Whether it took a little longer or ended quickly didn’t matter now. All that mattered was who actually won. Jeremy was sweating now, his brow damp. His brown hair clumped and stuck to his forehead. He shook his head quickly, sending small drops flying out and away from his eyes. Anthony saw a chance and lunged. The force of Anthony’s thrust sent them both to the mat, Jeremy on his butt, Anthony grappling at his waist. The move pushed the fighters away from the crowded stands. And Sarah jumped up from her seat for a clearer view. She jerked her left hand to her mouth with nervous worry. But her right hand remained casually slipped over her pussy. Her friend Cathy saw what she was doing and smiled. But the loud and chanting soldiers around her didn’t have a clue. There were to focused on the match, and the apparent success of their army buddy.

Jeremy’s face squinted with desperate strain. Anthony’s weight was on him, his arms wrapped around his meaty thighs. The soldier’s head, with bristled sweaty hair, was like a battering ram in his stomach. And act push sent him closer to the blue circle. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. He twisted his body, used his own hands to pry at the solder’s locked arms. He twisted around, trying to get on all fours. But Anthony just adjusted his grip, twisting with him and grabbing for a better hold. Her could hear Jeremy’s heavy panting, feel the frantic struggles of his muscles. He had the punk! The blue circle was close. Jeremy struggled to run, like a big dog, on all fours, trying to escape the master’s leash.

Anthony had him by the legs now, his arms around his upper thighs, his weight trapping the kid’s legs underneath. Jeremy was on his hands, pushing his upper body from the mat. But struggling forward only brought the blue line closer. And every few moments, Anthony pushed forward on Jeremy’s legs and pelvis, forcing his entire body towards the edge that would end his manhood. As Anthony shifted his arms and gave another push, his palm accidentally encompassed the Jeremy’s entire basket. But he didn’t jerk his hand away, as was his first instinct. Instead, he let is rest there, in that private spot between the punk’s legs, feeling the most personal bits of the guy as he gathered for another shove. The guy’s dick poked into his palm, his big meaty balls, covered first by their bag of flesh and then by the nylon singlet, filled his hand. “Yeah, Chipmunk,” Anthony grunted from behind. “Yeah, I’m gonna take your fuckin nuts and leave you with that little numb you thinks a dick.”

Jeremy felt the fire in his belly. He lunged forward, unexpectedly toward the line. His fingertips actually touched the dark blue strip. Anthony hadn’t expected this. He felt the punk’s legs slip forward and twist free. His own forward momentum and unbalanced weight caused his face to slam into the mat. Jeremy spun on his side and rolled back, away from the line, and was on his feet before Anthony recovered. But when he did, fire was in his eyes—a young soldier, with the rage of battle in his mind.

Jeremy crouched in front of him looking up through his sweaty hair. A slight grin of satisfaction was on his face for his quick escape. And he saw Anthony’s hard face grimaced. Jeremy let a little laugh, almost a cough escape his grin. “Maybe I’ll take yours.” He said. And Anthony’s eyes flashed in frustrated anger.

He lunged forward, his soldiers-green singlet flexing as his smooth muscles tensed and readied for the impact on his opponent. But Jeremy pivoted on his heel and gripped the rushing soldier’s forearm. With a twist and a push, using the momentum of the taller man’s thrust for force, he spun the unfortunate soldier against his hip and flipped him over. The crowd roared. The word went up again, but this time from the high schoolers in the stand and many of the soldiers: “CHIPMUNK, CHIPMUNK!” And it was an excited cry of respect.

Anthony was on his feet again in a heartbeat. Rage flared in his mind at the reversal. There was no way this short little punk, the short-sticked little dick was going to get away with humiliating him in front of his boys and his girl. He crouched again and prepared to grapple, but Jeremy just stood there. He wore a silly grin on his face. His little button stuck out in the crotch of his singlet, making a little shadow on the blue nylon. Anthony’s brow furled. And then, he saw it, the blue curved line of the blue circle, between him and his opponent. He was outside of it, on the other side, crouching like a warrior when the war was over. His face went pale. And he felt the two burly judges grip his shoulder. “No, No, no,” he chanted at them. But his words were lost in the roar of the crowd. Jeremy had his hands up. Anthony saw the sweaty brown tufts of hair in the guy’s pits as the judges forced him by. The soldier’s muscles were tired, and his body was sweaty. He tried to push against the grip of the judges, but they were fresh and strong. His eyes swam over the crowd—all those people on their feet, smiling, chanting, cheering, pumping their fists. He almost felt he was floating. His limbs felt numb and the air in the gym swirled around his face. Then he realized the judges were practically carrying him. His feet gently grazed the mat as they moved.

Then he was on his knees. The two big men pushed on his shoulders, making his back arch and pushing his knees into the mat. He felt the third judge, the main one who had stood by during the match, locking brown leather straps around his legs and feet. He jerked his arms, but found that each wrist was held in the big judges’ hands. By the time the released their grip on his shoulders, his legs and feet were strapped so tight, he couldn’t move. He just sat there on his knees, upright and staring. With the judges adjusted the Victory Rail. Anther judge gripped the shoulder straps of his green army singlet. And with a quick tug, pulled them over his broad sweaty shoulders. Anthony felt the fabric of the singlet peel off his body, down to his waste. And then another judge gripped them and pulled the gathered nylon down to his bound knees. He felt the air then over his body, cool against his moist flesh. And he was exposed, his body, his chest. His floppy dick hung out in front of him, dangling like a sausage from the forest of light brown pubic hair from which it grew. They could all see it, the entire crowd, see his manly parts.

Anthony was just there on his knees, the air of the gym swirling around his sweaty naked skin. His dangling manhood hung under him, on display for all members of the crowd to see—male and female, young and old, straight or gay. He tensed his legs and tried to walk on his knees, but they were bound fast to the rail, which stretched in front of him, right at his hips. He looked out into the crowd with dazed eyes. His mouth was agape. He saw the high school kids, the teachers, his fellow soldiers, all smiling and cheering and wild with the excitement of the moment. It was like they were intoxicated, caught up in a drama of which they were not a part. They were just entertained by the bout; their lives weren’t changed at all. They didn’t care what happened to him, he was just a character.

He felt something pull on his wrists. His shoulders felt the tug on either side. Was the bout over? What had happened? His blue eyes were bewildered and confused. They can’t do this. He hadn’t lost. He couldn’t have lost. He felt his arms being pulled. He looked from side to side. The judges had tied his wrists and hooked the rope to pulleys on either side of the rail. As the cranked the pulleys, His arms where pulled down and out. Anthony felt the pressure on his bound legs. He felt the nylon fabric of his green singlet gather and shift around his knees. But his legs could not move. Slowly, inch by inch, the ropes on his wrists pulled his body downward, forcing him to bend at the wrist. He felt his dangling manhood sway and giggle like the hammer of a bell between his legs. He tensed his face and pulled at his bonds, hands and feet, but he only succeeded in flexing his body—he didn’t move an inch. “No, No, No,” he strained from his dry mouth. The judges stopped cranking. He was in position. And the crowd went wild with laughter.

There he was, Anthony, 21 years old, soldier, lover, brother, son, on all fours like a dog, the rail pressing into his stomach, forcing his butt into the air. His face was strained, his neck flexed and pink. His eyes were bright and wild, looking out into the crowd for any friend or empathetic face. He found a few—men he knew in the service, those who had moments before been chanting his name and his unit. Seven, Five, Two! Seven, Five, Two! They weren’t chanting anymore, and when Anthony’s eyes met theirs, they looked away. One Private who had come up with him from boot camp stared at him for a moment, his face shocked and pained. Then he rose and jumped from the stand, not tough enough to stay until his comrade’s fate was decided. Anthony looked at the soldiers in the front rows. They were, in theory, his closest friends, the mates he went out drinking with on the weekends and who shared his common shower at the apartment barracks. Most were cheering now, and pumping their fists, caught up in the animal aggressiveness of the bout. If their buddy was on the rail, it was the way the game was played. And he knew the rules. A real man wouldn’t have lost, especially not to the Chipmunk. He read it in their faces, in the fire in their eyes. “NO, no, no, NO!” he screamed again. But no one seemed to hear.

And then his eyes caught those of the one person—the only person—in the crowd that he absolutely wanted to avoid. Sarah sat in her place, almost a silent statue in the midst of the reveling spectators around her. Cathy seemed like a demented woman next to her. Her fingers with their red painted nails twisted into claws and her bright red lips curled into a snarl as she cheered. But Sarah just sat, her surprised brown eyes staring right at him, at his naked male form stretched out like a dog on all fours. One hand she held at her mouth, as in a frozen moment of shock. The other she had on her lap, under her coat. Her eyes looked red, as if tired, but maximally alert. And the radiated fear and longing for him. He was her lover, her man, her untamed beast of pleasure. And he was beaten. The thought of it made his eyes water. And the first tear escaped his eye as he looked into hers. “No, no, no,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. But he saw something else in her as well, although he couldn’t quite understand what it was. But it was in her face, in her brow, in her twitching arm.

And before he could contemplate it further, he saw her eyes shift and focus elsewhere, behind him. He twisted his neck, making the tendons stretch out hard into his skin. And there was Jeremy, coming up behind, his face beaming with pride and a little disbelief. His blue singlet still clung to his sweaty body, and he shook his limbs as if to relax and stretch them. But he smiled like the king of the prom. “CHIPMUNK, CHIPMUNK, CHIPMUNK!” the crowd chanted eagerly to him. And he drank in their energy and approval. As he walked up behind, he saw Anthony there helpless, tied. He wasn’t standing tall like a man, like Jeremy—the chipmunk. He was down on his knees, on all four, sweating and panting, the skin of his neck and shoulders and chest turning a shameful shade of pink. He really did remind him of a dog tied in the yard. His head was twisted back in an attempt to see the victor, to know what he was doing or feeling or how he was looking, his eyes wide and fearful—like a tied up dog struggling to see his angry master’s approach. And his organs were down there too. His fat tanned sack of hanging balls, freed from the singlet and dangling down between his legs like a big dog’s. Jeremy felt his button dick began to pull on his singlet. He knew it; he felt it. There was no way to keep it from showing. His numb that had been nestled into his pubic hair tightly in the singlet began to rebel against the constraining nylon. By the time he was standing behind the defeated soldier, Jeremy’s male organ was a stiff little 4.9” pole that stuck out defiantly in his singlet. The fabric slug the short rod at an angle, half toward his stomach, half toward his thigh. And under the raging stalk, more like an extra thick finger in his shorts than anything else, his fat balls were perfectly outlined. But Jeremy didn’t care, and neither did the crowd. They understood. It was only natural for a young man to be aroused by the un-looked-for defeat of a stronger opponent—and his subsequent prostration and humiliation.

As for Anthony, he looked back at Jeremy with wild pleading eyes. The pinkness of coming tears already blotched his once proud stare of steal from the ring. The cheering of the crowd for Jeremy and the humiliation of his nakedness was not much on his mind. It was the terms of the match, and the choice Jeremy had to make. This kid, this high school punk, this short guy, this chipmunk-dick was about to pass judgement on his own mighty manhood. Just the night before, he had been the vigorous stallion who had fucked Sarah from behind with his fat pole. He was an invincible young man then, a soldier, enveloped by the ecstasy of pussy and orgasm and ejaculation. Now he was a crying begging mutt on the high school gym floor, naked, hanging, exposed.

Jeremy looked down on him, smiling, exhilarated by the aggressive energy of the crowd. He nodded to the judges in a signal he had rehearsed in his own mind a hundred times. And the judges acted quickly. With the rapid confidence of professionals, they reached for Anthony’s hanging studs. The floppers were obviously heavy to their fingers. And Anthony frantically looked down between his legs as they worked. “Oh no, no, hhuuuuuuhhhh, nooo, no,” he panted, almost to himself. His washboard abs flexed and contorted with each quick rasping breath. But he judges didn’t pay any attention. Each one of the two judges, one on either side, tied a white string around the neck of the unfortunate young man’s hanging baby-makers. When they had finished, the sac was tied off, tight enough to hold things in, but not enough to cause any major discomfort. Except in the poor guy’s mind, of course. Then, one of the judges threaded a slender silver wire through a knob on the rail. He passed it carefully and slowly to the other judge, who wrapped it twice around the hairy neck of Anthony’s sac, directly between the two closely tied strings. Then, after releasing the endangered gonads to dangle freely under their owner once more, he threaded the loose end of the wire to the other side of the rail. There, a tall wooden lever with a handle of silver stood out from the rail about waist high. When the judge had connected the wire, threading it carefully through the gears from which the lever sprung, the device was armed and ready. And Anthony’s jeopardy complete.

The crowd roared with anticipation. Most victorious combatants will order the losing male wired. So the action did not offer a signal as to Jeremy’s intentions. It was a pretty scary thing, to be tied there, on all fours, your balls hanging under you exposed and more vulnerably than they had ever been in a man’s life. Or ever would be, since no sane man would ever risk another bout and another possible lose if he escaped a first defeat with his orbs intact. And few men would remain unchanged after being forced to assume such a position. For less angry or vindictive warriors, this punishment was enough humbling humiliation to satisfy. Others were less forgiving.

Jeremy’s boner stuck out in his singlet as he watched the poor soldier’s balls handled against his will. There it was, the man who had taken Sarah’s love from him, stolen her for his bed, helpless. His basket wired and exposed. His rival's manhood was in his complete control, to spare or conclude. Jeremy shifted his hips and enjoyed for a moment the pleasant tingle that radiated from the nylon rubbing his the flared underside of his straining johnson. The cheer of the crowd, their approval of his decision to wire the loser washed over him. And they cheered again. “CHIPMUNK, CHIPMUNK.” And he knew they could see it, his chipmunk erection in his tights. But he didn’t care. It was him, his body, his manhood. And, as he looked as Sarah, he knew that she had liked it. As long as she had liked him, she liked it. That is all any man of any size could ask for.

He looked down at Anthony. His head was twisted around again, straining to see the shorter man’s proximity to the lever. His scalp was now pink under his short shaved hair. His body flexed and he felt the wire, heavy and strong, on the neck of his nuts.

He had fucked Sarah, Jeremy’s mind screamed. They were the only two men in the world who had. Jeremy’s mouth turned into a sly smile. “Harden him,” he quietly ordered the judge.

The judge to Anthony’s right, the one who had wired his nuts to the lever, leaned over. He twisted his arm under the soldier’s bending hip and reached for his floppy sausage. The crowed roared in a cackle of approval. It was clear that Anthony’s soft swinging sausage was not much smaller than Jeremy’s fully erect meat. The prospect of a one to one comparison, even from the distance of the stands, was something that sparked most of the audience’s secret curiosity. But Anthony just pushed his eyes closed tightly, a tear streaming down his distraught masculine cheek. “No, no, don’t, no.” he whispered to the judge. But he was bound to follow the winner’s instruction.

He twirled the loose noodle in his fingers, flicking the ridges of the underside with his thumb. The organ was obviously heavy in his digits, a dense slab of flesh hanging and hardening with each turn of the fingers. Anthony’s weepy face just looked forward, but his eyes were pinched closed. His head just stuck out, his jaw hanging, his mouth agape. “No, stop,” he would whisper here and there. But there was nothing he could do. His cock was hardening even as he was bent over the rail. He couldn’t stop it. Even the fear and anxiety of his powerless of his position did not restrain his flesh. Or perhaps, his body was responding to it, being hyper aware of its own potent sexuality in that moment when it was most in peril. In a minute, as the audience jeered and hooted, the soldier’s proud rod was at full mast. The hard 7” of his manhood with its fat and flared pink helmet cap staring out at the audience from between his legs. Its owner’s strong masculine body that hovered over it shadowed the elegant beam of pale white flesh. The crowd howled their approval. Even Anthony’s soldier friends were so enflamed by the visceral domination of their buddy that they cheered his tormentor on. And there was Sarah, sitting there in the front rows, forgotten by both Cathy and the soldiers, but remembered by Anthony and Jeremy. She sat there, tears running down her cheeks. She knew that boy, that strapping young soldier who had swept her off her feet and out of the fumbling fingers of Jeremy. He had always been so sure, so confident, so strong. He had been like a rock, something she couldn’t tame or control. She couldn’t manipulate him like she could her puppy dog first love. But who was broken now? Who was on all fours now? Who was panting as his masculinity was violated like a dog with a perverted vet? She whipped the tears from her eyes with one hand. But the other was still under the coat, now inside her shorts, now inside her panties. He cheeks flushed with pink.

Jeremy stood behind the poor humiliated beast. He really did look like an animal now—even more. He looked like a dog with a hanging back poking out under his butt and between his legs. His cock stretched out long and hard down the front of his stomach. The pink tip, wide, broad, stuck out forward with an obscene lustiness. But the poor young man just whimpered now. Shaking his head no. Jeremy could have ordered him milked by the judge. But, with the rush of victory receding in his mind, and with the tears of Sarah at her strong young boyfriend’s complete humiliation, he started to relent. The judge released the straining pole, so thick. so strong. And it bobbed some under his body. The young muscles that rooted it to his pelvis held it proudly and stiffly against his stomach. And then all three judges took their places—one on either side of the rail, one beside Jeremy. The young victor stepped forward. He placed his hand on the lever. The bright silver felt so cold in his sweaty palm. The other hand he placed in position, cupped under the hanging balls of the poor humiliated loser. One reckless lung and one quick push and he had been reduced to this. As he stood in that moment, with his hands where they were, Jeremy couldn’t believe that his cock had ever been harder—even when Sarah had stroked it the first time. He found that by rocking his hips very slightly, as if in time with the crowd’s chants, he made his little pillar of manhood rub against the tight nylon enough to feel the pleasure.

The crowd went nuts. “TAKE THEM, TAKE THEM, TAKE THEM!” they chanted. The soccer moms and out of work dads, the high school goers, the college kids out of class for the day, the soldiers—even some that were in the poor young man’s unit—they chanted and yelled. The bloodlust of the moment overtook them. It was the visceral savage appetite to see young untamed manhood neutered and domesticated that drove them in that moment. It was what the bouts were about, as much as pride and revenge. And they were caught up in the rare moment when one might actually come to completion. It was all in Jeremy’s hands now. He knew it, Sarah knew it, and Anthony knew it.

The soldier’s eyes burst open at the start of the chant. His head frantically bobbed around, twisting hard over his left shoulder, then over his right. He was Jeremy’s hand on the lever, saw the other hand hovering underneath his hanging fruit. “NO!” he screamed, a sound that washed and bleed into the din of the rowdy crowd. “GOD, NO, PLEASE, NO, DON’T!”

Jeremy looked at Sarah. There she sat. Her cheeks flushed, her mouth slightly agape. Her eyes teary but focused and piercing. Her face was tensed, her neck as well. The muscles of her forearm tightened as she moved her fingers under her coat. But she stared at Anthony, not Jeremy. She looked right at her man, he soldier. He had been so strong, so tough. She had loved him. But he was already nothing now. And the humiliation of him, the taming of him, his domestication that, regardless of Jeremy’s actions was already completed, it had awakened something in her. She felt like she was watching a sexy young man jump off a cliff. He was strong and powerful, so sexy, but doomed. He wasn’t coming back.

“TAKE THEM! TAKE THEM! TAKE THEM!”

“GOOODDD, NO MAN, OH MY GOD, NO! PLEEAAASEEE! GOD, NOT THEM! NOOOO!”

Jeremy stared straight at Sarah. She was so sexy there. And he saw her arm moving. Her sexy soldier boyfriend panted and begged in front of him, his manhood hanging there, helpless, defeated. His. He stared right at her, and he pulled his arm down. The lever gave with little effort and he felt it click. With a sudden tug, he pulled it back. In that instant, Jeremy felt the weight of Anthony’s heavy bag of testicles fall hard into the palm of his hand with a beefy slap. The two big orbs, the fat fruit that had hung under the strong man’s body, filled his singlet, made him a man, they were in his hand, hefty, substantial, the twin nuts that had made the young soldier a fucking stud. And his weary humiliated eyes saw them too, detached, severed, removed from his male body. He was neutered.

“AAGGUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH GOOOOWWWDDDDDDDD! NOOOOOOHHHHH”

The crowd howled and screamed in manic rapture. Jeremy saw Sarah’s face slacken as she stared at her young lover’s emasculation. But even as they pumped tears onto her cheeks, he eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth hung in a silent scream. And Jeremy knew that she was climaxing. They came together in that moment, the last mutual intimacy with their first loves.

The End.

Let me know what you think. Justoneguy.