By justoneguy

The young man had taken the shortcut in hopes of getting to his friend’s apartment a little faster. He was a little unsure of the directions and was already an hour late. And when a sign by the road read “Shortcut to Geldding – 5 miles”, the young man had taken the wide dirt road without question.

But the road was a dead end. Or at least, it stopped about 10 miles deep in the woods. The young man had seen several turn offs from this main dirt road on the way in, but when he tried to turn around and head back the way he came, every road seemed to lead to a different dead end. It was now starting to get dark, and the young man was 2 hours late to meet his friend. He was angry, very angry. He slammed his hand into the steering wheel and turned the rock music off his radio. After wondering the winding roads for another 30 minutes, the young man came to a dead end that was a little different. There was a building there—a little cabin. There were no lights in the windows, but the place looked well kept enough that the young man didn’t feel to afraid to walk up to the door. After all, he had by now lost all hope of finding his way out of this “short cut” and back on the main road on his own.

The young man knocked on the door, and it opened easily under the force of his knuckle. The cabin was dark, but a little moonlight still filtered in from the open windows. He could make out a rocking chair against on of the walls, and it was still.

“Hello?” said the young man. But there was no answer.

The young man’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness of the cabin, and he took a few steps inside. There seemed to be two rooms, one to his right and one to his left. There were more windows in the room to his left, so he took a few steps into it.

“Hello? Can I use your phone?” he said. But his heart was starting to pound in his chest. The house had looked innocent enough from the outside. And the young man was just mad enough about his predicament to wonder inside without fear. But now that he was inside the cabin, in the dark, and in the quiet, his natural instincts warned him to be careful. He felt a sudden urge to run back to his car as quickly as he could. He turned towards the door, but tripped on an uneven plank of wood in the floor. With a crash, the young man smashed into the cold hard wood floor. He was bewildered for a moment to find himself flat on his stomach, covered in dust. He sneezed once, and sniffed the snot back up his nose. He pushed off the floor and began to brush himself off, laughing now to himself a little as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

A blaze of yellow light rose behind him, filling the room around him and causing a long shadow of the young man to stretch out in front of him. It was like the light of an oil lamp; the wick suddenly raised up and kindling a bright flame which illuminates as well as any light bulb. The young man jumped where he stood at this unexpected change in the room. He started to turn towards the doorway to see where the light was coming from, but something caught his eye—the gleam of silver and the shimmer of green glass.

On the wall in front of him were jars, dozens and dozens of jars, all lined up like canned fruit in an old basement. There were four shelves across the length of one of the walls in the little room, and on each shelf was a row of jars. And there was something inside each.

The young man turned around. The door was still open, and the night air flowed into the house in a cool breeze. A lit oil lamp blazed from a shelf next to the door, but the young man didn’t see anyone. He opened his mouth to shout out another hello, but for some reason, the word caught in his throat. There was no sound, just the wind through the door. The young man turned back to the jars and stepped lightly forward. He couldn’t take his eyes off of them. They seemed to be the only thing in the room not covered in a layer of dust. He walked up to them and studied the display. Each jar seemed to have a clear liquid inside, and inside the clear liquid, something floating. On a piece of tape along the bottom of each jar, there was some writing. The center jar read “Justin Haverly.” The one beside it read “Cousin Dave.” The young man was perplexed. He peered into the jars, but he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. The jars were like pickling jars, but what was inside wasn’t fruit. It almost looked like…

The young man caught his breath and stifled a cough. He looked into the jar labeled “Justin Haverly” and realized why what was inside looked so familiar. He saw pretty much the same thing everyday—hanging between his legs. Inside the jar was a scrotum, the twin orbs of a guy’s testicles still clearly inside of the bag of flesh. The genitals of a guy were floating in the clear fluid of the jar. He looked from jar to jar. Some had full scrotums like the first; others had naked, gray, oval testicles suspended in clear fluid. In a few jars he saw the penises of some poor guys that now must be walking around without them. In one jar, he saw a rather large phallus, which was coiled a little in the smaller jar, the flared pink mushroom head pressed against the curve of the glass, the piss slit slightly open as if the guy were taking a leak. The jar was labeled “Kevin Lewis, depute.” The young man brought his hand up to his mouth as if to stifle a scream, but he made no sound. He looked in more jars, unable to take his eyes off the sight he didn’t quite believe. A row of five jars seemed to be sitting together. Inside of them was an assortment of testicles, scrotums, penises, penis heads. Each jar was labeled with a name and number. “Jared Prinston, #23” one read. “Evan Grayson, #15” another read. And in the last jar on the row, which contained an uncircumcised penis hanging in the clear liquid like a pickled sausage, the outline of the fat helmet still visible under the thick foreskin of some poor guy’s manhood, read “Chad Heath, #07, team captain.” The young man looked to his left and sitting under the last shelf was an orange basketball, no dust on it at all. He turned to look away, but another jar caught his eye. It was one of two sitting off to the side of the second shelf. It contained the ample ball sack of a man, the skin tanned and wrinkled, little wispy hairs suspended in the clear liquid, and the outlines of two large, pump orbs visible inside the fleshy bag. And on the jar it read “Brian Marsser.” And in the jar next to it, there was a very similar sac, roughly the same tanned skin color, slightly smaller and with fewer hairs, and it read “Jason Marsser, his son.”

The young man wretched. The hand over his mouth kept him from vomiting on the wooden floor. His mind couldn’t believe was he was seeing. It couldn’t be real. It was crazy. He turned to leave, but suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. He stumbled a few steps towards the door. The outside looked pitch black next to the light of the oil lamp. He slumped against the doorframe and nearly tripped over the threshold. The cool breeze of the night was in his face, and he felt warm like he had a fever. He took a step out of the house and collapsed.

* * *

The young man suddenly realized that he was asleep. It was a moment of drowsy confusion. A warm, wet, grainy feeling enveloped his body. He felt like he was floating in velvet clouds, but wet and warm. His mind turned to sexual thoughts, and he thought to himself that he felt like his entire body was within a warm wet pussy, cushioned and cradled by that part of a woman every man craves. The warmth receded from his body as his mind awoke. And the feeling began to be focused more and more on his crotch. He realized that the warm feeling was radiating from that point, and the feelings became more conventionally sexual in his mind. It felt like he was getting a blowjob. For a moment, he thought it was last year. He hadn’t had a blowjob since he and his girlfriend broke up before graduation. It felt just like he remembered—better than he remembered. “Oh god, baby, I’m gonna cum,” he said in his mind—not realizing he was saying I out loud. It was the call he always gave his girlfriend when she had suckled his body to completion. But the warm feeling did not recede. And suddenly the young man was wide-awake.

He opened his eyes to find the brown eyes of a woman starring up at him from his crotch. Her hand was around the base of his cock, her fingers spread out amongst the ample crop of coarse brown pubic hair that grew around his manhood and spread out across his crotch. He was cumming, cumming into her mouth. He trust his hips forward, involuntarily, as the amazing pressure built up behind his balls and then exploded out of his body in powerful rhythmic spasms. “Uuummmnngggggaahhhh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huuuuh,” groaned from deep in his chest. His eyes were wide, not knowing where he was or what was happening. All he knew or understood in that moment was the pleasure, the pleasure every male lives for, the feeling of ejaculating his seed onto a woman—mouth or pussy, it didn’t matter. He watched as the thick white seed of his manhood fell from the sides of the woman’s mouth and dropped in globs into his curly forest of sex hair. The woman’s gaze was still locked on his eyes, and she smiled as she swallowed the last mighty squirts of his virile seed. “Hhuuugghh, huh, huh, huh, huuuhhhh.” The young man’s body relaxed as the pressure in his loins receded. A warm fulfilled feeling spread out from under his body. His muscles tingled; his skin felt cool with sweat. His orgasm was over.

The woman allowed his hard six-inch member to pop free from her mouth. It rested lazily across his pubic hair, now wet with his own semen, and arched up toward his flat stomach and small navel. She licked the underside of his over-sensitive tool, and he flinched.

The woman looked to her left. “His spunk sure tastes better than the fellow the other week,” she said smiling.

“I guess he is just lucky his momma and daddy had his pecker skinned when he was born. Otherwise, he would a missed out on your doins,” a rough voice answered.

The young man tried to turn his head to see who spoke but realized that a band across his forehead held him fast. He flexed his arm and leg muscles but couldn’t move. He was tied secure. Tied on a wooden table in the same room. He could see the rows of jars between his naked feet. He was nude, he now realized. His eyes were wide, straining to look from side to side.

“Yeah, I don’t like those guys with the skin,” the woman said, whipping her mouth of the young man’s seed. “To bad, too. That last guy, the captain. He was the hottest young thing. I would have blown him twice, ifin he hadn’t had that German bratwurst hangin down between his legs.”

The young man licked his lips—and suddenly realized he could talk freely. “What do you want,” he said quietly, almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” the woman said, ignoring his question. “He’s awake now too. Guess that is for the best. They cum quicker when they are awake. Well, I’ve had my piece; lets get started.”

The woman rose, and the young man saw that she was wearing an old faded dress and a white apron dotted with pale stains. Her hair was pulled behind her and pinned up off her shoulders. She was about his age, the young man figured. She stepped aside and someone else came into view. It was a man, older than him, perhaps in his thirties. He was gruff, with a scruffy beard, and a black wearing a black apron over a blue jumpsuit. The young man saw him toss his wallet onto his bundle of clothes on the floor.

“If you want more money, I can get it for you. I don’t carry much cash,” the young man said, swallowing in a dry throat.

“Hahaha,” the woman laughed.

The gruff man smiled. “We don’t want your money, boy. We want your jewels.”

The gruff man leaned over the table and wrote slowly and deliberately onto a piece of paper on the table. The young man strained to see what he was doing. His sex organ was rapidly deflating and was now laying to one side, soft and satisfied, a bead of late flowing semen hanging from the slit. The young man’s flat stomach rose and fell with his breaths. The room was quiet except for the sounds of his exhales and the scribbling of the gruff man.

After a few seconds, the man ended what he was writing with a hard period and dropped the pencil to the table. He lifted the strip of paper and applied a piece of tape. He lifted it up for the young man to see. “You see boy?” he said.

The young man’s eyes focused on the paper. It read “Matthew Sullivan,” his name. “Oh god,” the young man whispered. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he said quietly with each breath.

The gruff man pressed the paper onto a jar, a clear empty jar, the same size as the others. The young man’s eyes darted to and fro. Where was the woman? This can’t be happening.

“Get em ready,” the gruff man said.

And the young man saw the woman pass in front of him. In a moment she returned and stood at the foot of the table. The young man could see her framed on either side by his two bare feet. He felt her lift his sack of heavy balls. He hadn’t realized they were hanging so low until she raised them. He couldn’t see his sack of manhood, just his soft dick lying lazily over his brown, matted pubic hair. But he felt her fondle them gently, feeling how they moved in their soft sack. “These are some treasures you got her, young fellow,” she said with a smile. “They made yah big and strong didn’t they.” She rubbed one of her hands along is strong muscled thigh, teasing the little hairs that grew there. “They made yah grow hair and get that deep voice, didn’t they. They made yah chase the ladies didn’t they”

“Chase the pussy,” the gruff man said with a laugh. He was behind the young man’s head now, and he couldn’t see what he was doing.

The woman smiled. “Yeah, I bet they made yah chase a lot of pussy, didn’t they. A lot. I bet they made your dick so hard, they made it so easy to slide on into those willing ladies didn’t they.”

“How many girls did your balls make you fuck, boy?” the gruff man asked. He seemed to be further away now.

The young man looked at the woman, who was still fondling and cupping his sensitive man-marbles in her warm hands. “Two,” he said quietly.

“That it,” said the man. “Hell, your balls are bigger than that boy.”

The woman smiled. “Sure they are,” and she gave them a gentle tug. “Bet you are going to miss all that when it is gone.”

Then the young man felt it. A sharp pain stabbed up into his belly from between his legs. A terrible pressure—but not like the pressure of orgasm. This was a strangling pressure, a deadly pressure. The boy’s body broke out into a cold sweat. “Argguuuhhhhhhhhh, what, what, wha, what is it!?!” he cried. “Oh god, stop it, stop it.”

“He’s banded,” the woman said to the gruff man.

“Like I needed you to tell me,” the gruff man said with a huff. “How many times we done this.”

Then, the young man saw the gruff man appear between his tied and spread bare feet. And in his hand was a knife. A sharp knife, cold and gleaming, spotless and merciless. “Gawd, how I can’t stand these strapping city boys. Feel good to know there is one less of em out there.” He lowered the knife.

“Oh god, oh god, STOP, STOP, please.” The young man heard his own voice as if it were remote, distant. His body ached and strained. He bucked his hips, but only succeeded in getting his soft penis to flop from one thigh to the other. “Don’t hurt me; I’ll do anything. Of god, please, of god it hurts. Take it off, take it off, please, oh god.”

The gruff man looked at him then. At his pleading eyes and sweaty face. “You love it don’t yah. Your manhood. You love strutten around with a pair of hangers between your legs? Love knowin you’re young and strong and tough. You love lookin for pussy to fuck? Knowin that if a girl wanted you, you could get stiff and stick it in her?”

The young man’s eyes watered and tears flowed down from the corner of his eyes. “Yes, oh god, yes. Please don’t hurt them man, I’ll do anything, God, don’t hurt them. I need them, oh god, not my balls, not my balls. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.”

“Boy,” the gruff man said. “It’s happening.” The young man felt the gruff man’s rough hand grip his tender young balls. And with a sudden quick slice, his manhood was ended.

“AAUUAUUUGGGGhhhhhhhhhhGGGGAAAAAWWWWwwwddddddddd!” The gruff man sliced quick and face. The tender soft skin of the boy’s scrotum didn’t even resist the knife. Within half a second, the twin cords from which his male orbs hung were severed. The young man felt them, felt the stabbing pain like to completely separate and independent knifes stabbing up into his groin.

The gruff man raised his arm, and the young man saw them—the hanging bag of his manhood, hanging from this gruff man’s hand. “Hhuhaaahh, mmy balls, my balls, oh god, my balls, my balls,” the young man said, delirious, his mind swimming in a sea of pain. His manhood was gone, it was gone. He had seen his balls every day, hanging down between his legs, seen them in the mirror. But he had never seen them like this, a hanging bag of meat, no longer his, no longer between his legs, replaced now with nothing but pain.

The gruff man dropped the hanging bag of fruit into the jar with a PLOP and screwed on the lid. The woman passed in front of the young man and he stared at her, his eyes hot and red. “Their gone,” he moaned to her. “Oh god, he cut em off. They’re gone. They’re gone.”

* * *

The young man was like a limp child sleeping on his father’s shoulder when the hoisted him back into his car. They put his shirt back on, but threw his pants and underwear in the back seat. When the young man awoke from his fevered sweaty delirium, he didn’t know where he was. His mind was so jumbled he almost didn’t know who he was. All he knew was the pain, the dull empty ache that radiated from his mutilated groin. He was in his car, in the woods, on some road. His eyes were heavy. He didn’t know what to do. God, his balls, god his balls hurt. He reached down to cradle them, as he did when they were accidentally knocked in basketball, but there was nothing there, only a nub and a band. “They’re gone,” he whispered to himself. “God, they’re gone, god.” He started his car and drove. His legs hurt too much to put his pants on, and he sat his naked rear on the seat. His penis was shriveled and stuck out from his nest of pubic hair, still matted with the dried semen of his last load of jism. For the first time in his young life, he didn’t feel the ovals of his balls against the cushion of the seat. He drove, drove, drove. Out of the woods.

He was a young gelding, a neutered nothing, no longer a man, no longer potent, no longer virile. He wasn’t like his friends anymore, with a bag of male fruit hanging between his legs. His manhood was ended, ripped from his strong muscled body, in a jar sitting on a shelf in a distant cabin.

THE END

Comments are welcomed. Check out my other stories. Email me [email protected] Don't be too hard on this one. I wrote it in an hour and didn't read it over before I submitted it.