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3D-art manip photo

“Castracare Team Leader” by Zontar22

Here is a great new talent, Zontar22. Here is his DeviantArt profile.

“Castracare is a private company that works for the Testicle Licencing Authority. Here, we see a castration team preparing to receive the next patient into the castration chamber.”

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photo Uncategorized

Nice BDSM photo

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eBook review

Review of “Thirty-Five Castration Fantasies” eBook by cbtok on GoodReads

This is an excellent review that gives a short summary of each of the 35 fantasies. Here’s where to buy it on Amazon.

Please note: in the review below, the phrase ‘relieves himself’ does not refer to urinating, it refers to masturbating to ejaculation.


AMAZON BAR
The narrator is warned about going into the wrong room…

AUNT ABIGAIL’S TRIMMIN’ PARLOR
The punishment for men cheating, exposing one’s self or jerking off is severe, but it keeps this world in line.

BRIDGE NIGHT DEMO
Alison’s house husband, Little Billy, routinely serves the women during their bridge games. Alison wants Little Billy to show her friends what a good little pussy licker he is. Reluctance is dealt with. Alison demonstrates exactly how Little Billy functions and thinks about planning a nice surprise party in Little Billy’s honor.

CASTRATION FARM
Sharon and Alison encourage the narrator to get an erection and relieve himself in front of them. Alison’s Aunt Cassie knows what to do when dirty men shoot their loads in front of her nieces. The story causes the narrator to shoot his load and Sharon and Alison introduce him to Aunt Cassie.

CASTRATION SLUT
A college boy is approached by a journalist at a bus stop. She wants him to come back to her apartment and jerk off in front of her. But the campus paper has an article about a rash of mysterious castrations on campus. College boys just need a little guidance.

COMPANY SISSY
The narrator is interviewed by the company doctor after filling out a questionnaire and placed with Liza, an executive who takes a special interest in him, fondling and goosing his butt, then inviting him to her home. On tap is a penetration. Then, on a subsequent occasion, to a friend’s place to watch as another woman penetrates Ralph. Liza orders the narrator to jerk off as he watches the scene. Liza tells the story of Ralph’s deflowering by Bruce. This story is to introduce the narrator to his own future with the company. There is a special requirement for Personal Assistants to a Vice President.
This story seems disjointed, a series of episodes that are not well connected.

CONSULATATION WITH A CASTRATRIX
Ms. Veronika van Gelder runs a busy clinic for castration in San Francisco. Mr. Jones enters for a consult. Nurse Elaine and Nurse Maryann will attend the consultation after Mr. Jones signs the Consent Form. Very quickly, they determine that Mr. Jones has a secret wish…

DOWN ON THE FARM WITH MS. VAN GELDER
Ms. Van Gelder is overcommitted. She needs a rest. She retreats to her farm to find one of her hired hands has let his fantasies run away with him.

DREAM FULFILLMENT
This is really not a story at all. It might form the outline or one.

ERIC’S CORRECTION
Sandra Jones brings Eric to the correction center, where Julia gets him strapped down for his examination. Life will be a lot less stressful for the couple.

FEMALE-LED MARRIAGE
Emily and Marge discuss Emily’s husband, Jim’s castration over a glass of wine.

FIXING LITTLE JIMMY
Little Jimmy’s masturbation problem has begun to get out of hand and his mother takes her “dog” to the “vet” to get him neutered with Little Jimmy in tow.

GOOD LITTLE PIGGY
Aunt Abigail gives Young Tommy a tour of her farm, which includes the gelding stocks. Aunt Abigail always makes her piggies squeal.

HOUSE HUSBAND
The narrator chooses Howie to be her house husband, starting with establishing her dominance over him and taking steps to erase his manhood. She then proposes marriage. Once he is serving her as her house husband, his independent streak is taken care of.

JAKE GETS CLIPPED
Samantha runs a ranch with ponyboys as a main feature. She uses them sexually, for oral satisfaction and hosts parties, where the servants are eunuchs (who provide sexual service for her guests). Jake has been a ponyboy on her ranch for six months and has assumed that he is entitled, due to that length of service. An assumption of entitlement doesn’t get one very far.

KINKY FETISH BOUTIQUE
The narrator enters a fetish store and purchases the last remaining issue of Castratix Quarterly and takes it home. Reading through the magazine, he finds himself extremely aroused. His next copy of the magazine will be gratis.

MANHOOD POUCH
Dorkus Malorkus (an unlikely name) narrates a story of phoning a castration clinic and being welcomed as soon as he admits having a fetish for being castrated. It seems the janitorial position has just opened.

MEN TO BOYS
Donna, Billy Jones’ college girlfriend, makes him call her, ‘mommy’. She encourages him to jerk off and guides his fantasies. There’s a specialist who takes care of boys who jerk off all of the time. She helped Billy’s father.

MOM HAS ME CASTRATED
Eunuchs make excellent servants and we open this story with an auction. Lady Nuttingham introduces Sid, whose mother had him castrated and trained by the Sissy Care Camp ladies.
Sid remembers what led up to these events, living with his mother and his older sister, who teased him and made him jerk off in front of her friends.

MY WIFE TAKES ME TO AUNT ABIGAIL’S
The narrator’s wife has denied him sex in a town where jerking off is punished by castration. His wife teases him until he cannot resist.

ONLY SISSIES MASTURBATE
A wifely makeover is followed by a party, where the husband is exposed to each and a suggestion is offered to take care of the husband’s needs permanently.

PA LOSES HIS NUTS
Pa has been caught by Ma exposing himself to Little Sis. Ma has just the tool for that.

PREPPING A PIGGY-BOY
A castratix narrates her procedure for getting piggy boys so relaxed that they are unaware of the finality of the procedure until they return home and the anesthetic has worn off.

PROPERTY TRANSFER
Victoria examines a row of naked, gagged males, shackled and bent over a bench. She is to choose one for castration to be her oral slave.

RETIRING AN OLD SPERM BULL
When production falls off at the sperm milking farm, the bull is retired. That evening, dinner is delicious.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON
When a girlfriend discovers her boyfriend’s secret castration fetish, all she needs is consent.

SCROTUM POACHING
Gloria Gelder takes on an extra-credit project for her Biology class and discovers an ancient papyrus in the special collections archive. It tells of a dark art that she makes into her passion.

SEDUCTION
Society is selectively breeding more pliable and agreeable men all the time but there are still a few holdovers. Mr. Jones is in for some serious adjustments.

SEXUAL BEHAVIOR CONSULTANT
Stan Jones becomes erect during a routine physical while Jane, the nurse practitioner, is examining his testicles. Jane makes an appointment for him with Dr. Brown and hands him pre-appointment instructions, which he follows. Dr. Brown practices in the field of sexual behavior management. It may turn out that the clinic’s strongest treatment alternative is required.

SPERM COW FARM
The life of a sperm cow is hard, they are in a tight chastity until milking time and production quotas must be met.

THE OLD BULL
A sly, seductive 40-year-old picks up the old bull. She’s going to turn him into her sweet little angel forever.

THE PERFECT SERVANT
A conversation between Lady A and Lady B about how Rachel made her husband into her more useful and manageable servant.

WALK-INS WELCOME
Stan stops in front of a Victorian house in San Francisco in front of a sign that reads “Certified Public Castratix” and welcomes walk-ins. Ms. Van Gelder invites him in for an explanation and demonstration.

WIFE OF A BIG-BOTTOMED SISSY
The narrator describes how his wife increased his weight by feeding him and reducing his exercise. He stumbles on a magazine his wife has in the house called “Sissy Care,” and she discovers him jerking off to an article. His wife has been playing with him anally and, on this day, chooses to peg him. She describes her friend, Bernice’s relationship with her husband, Larry, who the narrator hasn’t seen in a while, as Bernice has transformed Larry into her house-husband. They go to a clinic, where the narrator is shown a book with photos of a number of men who have been castrated.

YOUNG DAVID ON AUNT ABIGAIL’S FARM
Aunt Abigail likes to work her farm topless. This causes David no small amount of desire and he relieves himself often. He witnesses a castration of a farm hand and, while watching relieves himself, not knowing Aunt Abigail’s nieces witness his act. They go skinny-dipping, giving David his ultimate thrill.
The author has created a world where castration of human males is frequent, painless and erotic. The end result is a “good boy,” and men are attracted to the act. For anyone into this kink, there will be a lot of grist for the mill here but I found many of the stories and many of the themes repetitive. There are farms, the creation of overweight sissies, frequent appearances by Ms. Veronica Van Gelder, visits to clinics where the final orgasm occurs before castration. There is mild humiliation.

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animated cartoon story

Extracted images from “A Little Chat” video by Lamivex, part 2

Categories
animated cartoon story

Extracted images from “A Little Chat” video by Lamivex, part 1

I have taken the time to select all the distinct images from this short video that lasts 2 minutes and 40 seconds so that people can take the content at their own speed. Here is the blog post for the original video.

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cartoon

8 new ones from PressingSomeButtons

This artist is a bona fide lesbian with an unabashed enthusiasm for radical emasculation. Here is her Twitter account.

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text

Short note about recent story posts

I’ve always found textual narratives to be the hottest form of porn because it is the most suggestive and because it can capture the psychological relationships so well. The 25 stories just posted are ones I’ve collected over the years. The first one I encountered, “A Meek Wolf Among Savage Lambs”, I found in a collection of Ribald Tales published by Playboy when I was only 12. It was this story that showed me for the first time just what a powerful hold this fetish had on me.

I’d love to publish this collection as a single eBook and charge a nominal fee to compensate me for the job of editing it. But obtaining permission from the authors seems too problematical and I wouldn’t want to publish without it.

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story text

“SNIP!” by Vickie Tern

I. “Snippety, snip!”

Aurora was playing around down there again. After we’d made love she’d often lie there with her head on my thigh and “play doctor” as she called it. She usually set a frantically passionate pace once we got going, climbing all over me and urging me to thrust everywhere into her, and when finally we’d both gotten sated, bitten, scratched, and covered with each other’s juices, when finally I was exhausted, she’d be pleased but somehow restless. We’d been seeing each other about six weeks, five of them mostly in bed. No way had we used each other up. I felt closer to her than ever, and I’d begun to live for each evening when she’d come over from wherever she lived. My work fell to one side, and my friends never saw me. Much of the time we wouldn’t even bother to eat the romantic little dinner I’d prepare or we’d phone for.

We played wonderful games. Languorous courtesan, with Aurora leaning back in satin as if amused, while I coaxed from her the sexual favors she half-denied, half-yielded. Slave prince, me tied to the wall and defiant while she was the Amazon princess who used me. Once bitch in heat, me sniffing her privates before a glorious lunging fast fuck, jabbing my withers at her as quickly as I could.

Then one week we played all these roles again, and the others too, only in reverse. I was the bitch in heat. She was the imperious captive. For my role as a courtesan I wore satin and stayed home from work all day to get my hair and make-up just right, and she wooed me with a diamond necklace that made me feel genuinely lovely as she clasped it around my neck, the two of us looking in a mirror. After a swooning session that left me breathless, my unladylike cock finally limp inside her, she said, “Oh, you should have been a girl,” and I smiled and kissed the tip of her strap-on dildo in reply. She also wished I could be a bitch in heat more often. Only when we played stallion did she show impatience, while I was mounting her. I’m not that large. But mostly I give satisfaction.

Then she had a game of her own she liked to play with her fingers, clipping everything extraneous off the world. Waiting for me to come back to life a third time, even a miraculous fourth, her own playfulness undiminished, she’d wave her arms in the air all around me, like some Circe casting a spell, and waggle two fingers together like scissor blades, and mock-cut things up. Hair from her head, or from my crotch. Her bra, crumpled into the bedsheets under her sweet rear end. One of her nipples, still jutting nobly out of their pink aureoles on the tips of those gorgeous breasts. My penis.

“Snip!”

When I objected to that even in play, she smiled and moved down to my balls, sprawled exhausted in their limp sack, waiting to recover. She lifted them with one hand and clipped the sac between her two fingers just below where the penis attaches, as if she were cutting excess material from an apron or house dress in process. “Snippety!” she said.

I let it pass.

“You don’t mind my snipping these, now, do you,” she said, experimentally hefting both balls in her palm before letting them back down on the bed.

“Well, yes,” I said. I decided not to say anything more.

“But why?” she asked, I couldn’t tell whether impatiently or teasingly. “You don’t need them. You don’t mean to have more kids, do you?”

She knew I didn’t. My ex had been awarded both, and the grief I’d caused and felt for them all through the divorce and since was enough for several lifetimes.

“And I certainly don’t want kids. Whether we keep seeing each other or not. So why do you need them? They’re in the way when you jog or play tennis or do anything healthy, bouncing and jouncing. When you’re my captive maiden in my dungeon, they ruin the view. And anyone can put you into agony by punching them.”

She swung her fist in a short uppercut from between my legs, and I flinched before she arrested her swing and held her hand up, palm out. “See?” she said. “Never touched them, and look at you. Big strong mans.”

She meditated. “I don’t have any and I get on just fine.”

“Aurora,” I said. “That’s what makes the juice that made us so happy a few minutes ago, when I was reaching and reaching for it and finally you brought it all spurting out of me. Into you, and you seemed glad to have it, the way you arched your back and cried out over and over.”

“No, those things don’t,” she said. “Not that juice. Not your testicles. Where’d you get your sex education? That joy juice is from your prostate, down deep just behind this limp thing here, your penis. From that smooth little lump I tickle sometimes, when my finger’s deep in your ass, and then you cum like a jackrabbit.”

“That’s some stunt,” I said with feeling, remembering. “Where’d you learn that?

“In sex education. In high school.”

“They taught finger fucking?”

“It was a liberal school,” she said. Her mouth mused a little, and she glanced sideways at me for a moment, then went on. “Both sexes got the same sex lectures at the same time. A doctor explained our physiologies. He told the boys how doctors reach into assholes to feel the prostate to see it’s OK, especially when a boy gets to be an old man. It sounded neat. So I took three boys outside and dared them to let me try it on them. Then once I got them going, all three came all over themselves. That was fun!”

“You were something!” I said, admiringly.

“I’m not now?” she asked. She knew the answer and went on. “Then they asked me to do it again, and I played hard to get. They said they’d do anything I wanted if I’d do it to them again. So I did, a few more times that day. Then each day for a few weeks. It was lots of fun, better than Girl Scouts for sure! But I ran out of things to order them to do, and it got boring. I told them no, no more, and they pleaded a while, but you already know pleading doesn’t work at all with me. Not at all.”

She paused. “A year later one of them told me they were still doing it to each other. I bet they still are.”

“What’d you order them to do?” I asked. I felt stirred, somehow.

“Oh, stuff,” she said. Her lips were close to the head of my penis, and I wondered if she was going to take it into her mouth. That beautiful mouth, with those red, curling, curving lips. “Told them to walk around naked, and kneel in front of me first whenever we were starting a session, and ask me nicely. Like I asked you to kneel earlier tonight, and you were so sweet and did it. You know. One I made wear one of my brassieres and panties all day under his clothes. He became my dedicated girl-boy. I put him in dresses when we went for sodas and things. He was so afraid he’d meet someone he knew! I made the other two boys try to tickle his prostate gland with their cocks, but both cocks were too short, so I had to finish him off with my finger usually. They’d push their pricks into his ass, but nothing ever happened except they’d cum in him and make him messy.”

“The day I told them all I wouldn’t play any more, I figured I’d cure my girl-boy of being afraid, as a going away present. I told him maybe I’d change my mind if he did everything I told him with no hesitation. Then I got him up in my nicest party dress, his hair done up with a ribbon, and a little lipstick, and all. He really was pretty! I kissed him, and I said, ‘That’s my girl’ to encourage him. Then I walked him all over the neighborhood, the schoolyard, everywhere, and made sure everyone did see him and recognize him. He was mortified at first when the first girls we saw teased him, and the guys all told him to meet them behind the school for a little ‘you know what.'”

“Oh my, look how you’re swelling up. You really do like girly games too, don’t you. Anyhow, after a while there was no more reason to feel afraid. Everyone knew. The rest of that year everyone teased him that he was a fairy girl and a pantywaist, and everything, and he finally learned to say, ‘So what?’ By then he liked wearing panties, and dresses, and all the rest. When the three of them took up diddling each other, he usually dressed up and played me, I heard.”

“You really were something!” I said admiringly. By now I could feel her moist, warm breath on my cock, those lips not an inch away from it. “What else did you do?”

“Not much else. Couldn’t think of much else, at the time. Stretched out their assholes, of course. Not with a dildo or a butt plug, the way I do you. Couldn’t afford things like that then, not on my allowance. But I figured, what my finger could do, a broom handle could do better, and then a baseball bat could do better still. And they sure could. Though I had to be careful to grease them, and not to push them in too far, and to wash them off especially after. Yuck!”

My prick was definitely on the mend, and I began to caress her nipples with both hands. She settled in to enjoy it with a snug little grunt of contentment. “There was an accident,” she said a little dreamily. “But not too bad. I tied off their balls, the two that weren’t my girl-boy, and got a leash and a whip, and tied the leash to the loop around their balls, and started to teach them circus tricks. Crack the whip, and tug on the leash, and up they’d go, climbing ladders or a tree in my back yard, or sitting on each other’s shoulders. My girl-boy sitting and watching in his pretty dress would applaud us.”

“So what was the accident?”

“One day they were both in a tree being monkeys, and one of them dropped the other on the other side of a branch, and when he fell he hung by his balls for a while, until the other boy could cut him loose. Scream? A neighbor called an ambulance. But no real harm done — he was back in school inside of a week. When he got back he told me his balls were too damaged to keep, so they’d taken them out and put in little soft plastic ones instead ‘so he wouldn’t be disfigured’ they told him, and when he grew up they said they’d give him big plastic ones. ‘Disfigured?’ I ask you, whose crotch looks better, yours with all that clutter hanging off it, or mine, swept to a simple V-shaped mound and neat as a pin?”

She glanced up and saw a little gleam of lust in my eye, and then she looked back down at my cock again. “Right,” she said. “No contest! Anyhow, they gave this kid shots later on, so he’d grow hair on his chest and all, and be a man, same as if he still had balls. Couldn’t have kids, of course, but what’s so bad about that? Couldn’t knock anyone else up either and then run off. He didn’t care for girls after that anyhow. And the other boys taunted him, called him a eunuch when they learned the word. But as my girl-boy learned to say, ‘So what?’ They hung out a lot together afterward, my three little boys. They were my first.

“So that’s how I know about shots. If you already have hair on your face, and you don’t want kids, you don’t need these gumballs.”

She clutched them in her hand, and squeezed, till they hurt a little. I tried not to let on. She took an experimental lick on the tip of my penis, and then another, and squeezed a little harder, and looked satisfied for some reason. “Well, maybe they’re good for one thing, though shots are still better. A little bit of testicle juice, you’re a little bit horny. A lot and you’re a lot horny, if you’re the right kind, though too much from your balls make can make you nasty, really aggressive, you know? Angry, and you don’t live as long. Shots work out better. Of course your own can conflict with the shots, and then your balls can atrophy or get cancer, and then you lose them anyhow. “

“How’s this little fella doing?” My prick had gotten plump, not yet stiff. Suddenly she took the whole of it into her mouth, rolled her eyes up to meet mine mischievously, and started sucking on it. In two minutes I was hard again, and in five more minutes she’d sucked me to a monumental orgasm, my prick pulsing and pumping in her mouth until there was no more juice left for her to swallow, and then pulsing a few more times anyhow.

Then she wanted to slither up my body and have me thrust my penis into her yet again. No way.

“Aurora, I’ve come four times in the past couple of hours, once just a few minutes ago. That’s already twice my world record for assisted comes.

“I told you,” she said. She waved her arms around, making that scissor gesture again. “Shots are better. You want to see a doctor I know. She’ll fix you so we can go from morning to night, and then all night if you want to really shoot up. Maybe an implant. Just talk to her about it, OK?”

I agreed to talk. She licked me up and down for a while, concentrating on the head of my penis and on my nipples, until I felt a peculiar desiring in my groin, which was still soft. The desiring starting to build, like an orgasm, but without my penis responding it seemed to have no place to go. She could feel a delicious tension rising in me finally to stretch out my whole body, I’m sure, because she said, “Oh, yes! You’re the one!”

Then suddenly without another word she got up, got dressed, and was gone. It was barely midnight. An early evening.

For a few days I didn’t hear from her, and I began to worry she’d quit with me. I hadn’t performed for her. I realized I had no phone number to call to ask for another chance. She’d always called, and she’d always come over, or we’d met someplace. I didn’t even know where she lived! Then Saturday morning the phone rang. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Aurora said without preliminaries. “Be ready. We have an appointment with my doc in forty minutes. She was just able to fit you in. I’ll honk and you come out.” And she hung up.

What had I agreed to do with her doctor? To talk about hormone supplements to could keep my pecker up indefinitely. Induced satyriasis? I pictured myself going to work crouching down and trying to hide an all-day boner, and grinned. Well, a permanent hard-on would solve my problem with Aurora for sure, I thought. Just what the doctor ordered. And if our relationship didn’t work out, no harm done. I threw on sweat pants and a sweat shirt as if I were going jogging, and when her little Toyota honked I came out in a trot and hopped in. Only when we were under way did I realize I’d taken no wallet, no money, not even house keys.

Her doctor practiced in a clinical building just outside of town, apparently with other physicians with no other Saturday patients, as far as I could tell, because an “MD” license plate was the only other car in the lot.

“Now, you’re sure you want this?” she asked me, leaning back in her chair after Aurora introduced us. “Sign this release please.”

I glanced at Aurora. She shrugged slightly, her head a bit askew, as if to say, “Humor her, she’d odd but she’s worth it.” Doctors these days won’t give you the time of day if they don’t feel protected against litigation. So I signed the paper on the edge of her desk and then started in.

“First of all, I’d like to know what’s involved.”

She looked annoyed and her eyes flicked off her wristwatch. “Medial resection and then hormone augmentation, maybe by implant. A simple procedure. The effects can be rather long-term, however,” she said drily. “I’ll ask again, are you sure it’s worth it to you?”

“Aurora’s quite a woman,” I replied, smiling at Aurora. She beamed back at me reassuringly. “She’s worth quite a lot. She’s special. I want to satisfy her.”

“She surely is special,” the doctor replied. “And so will you be. Well, I have a busy afternoon at the hospital, so if you’re ready I’ll explain as we proceed,” the doctor said. “There’s a small OR here, sufficient for these kinds of in-house procedures. Usually people go directly home afterward, but I understand Aurora wants you to spend the night here. That’s acceptable. Aurora, if you’ll wait here for now. We shouldn’t be long.”

This time I grinned inwardly. An implant to give me indefinite hard-ons. I could live with that. And if Aurora wanted to take immediate advantage of it, that’s OK too. We walked into a small brilliantly lit room, and as ordered I removed my pants, lay down on her examination table, and as asked put my feet into the stirrups. I’d heard women comment on how open and vulnerable they felt during gynecological examinations with their feet bound to those metal extensions high off the table, their private parts utterly exposed, and now I understood. Then with swift efficiency the doctor strapped down my hands and started an IV.

“First something to help you relax while I’m working,” she said, injecting something into the tubes leading to my veins. Almost immediately I felt warm, comfortable, reassured about everything. Then the doctor went between my legs to do something I couldn’t see.

“Is it an implant you’ll use?” I asked. “Injections? How does it work? It stays hard all the time?”

“Ordinary injection of a local anesthetic. I’m already injecting the site, and I see already you can’t feel it. Oh, you mean hormonal implants? In your case I think time-release shots to keep you going for a month at a time. And does it stay hard? No, it gets easier with practice. I do lots of these, for women who request them, those with brutal husbands, or with men who wander into other women’s arms. It lets them know who’s boss. For Aurora it’s been to assure performance, until now. Injected hormones aren’t as stressful to the body, and she likes it with lots of juice. Not many men agree to this procedure. I don’t know where she finds you.”

I was adrift nearly asleep on a sea of good feeling, bobbing up and down, and had no idea what she was saying. The doctor was busy between my legs.

“There,” she said. “That’s one of them. Now merely tie off the main blood supply and cauterize the small blood vessels.”

Was she installing a dildo in my cock? Half-dozing, I was amused by the idea of changing the batteries. A vibrating cock? I’d finish up a real fucking machine. A six million dollar man, easily worth that much to any woman who couldn’t get enough. Feeling all mellowed out.

“There,” she said. “That’s the other. Done. Now I’ll finish the suturing and pack the wound. Then tomorrow we’ll start your replacement hormones.”

I must have nodded off. “Want to see?” I suddenly heard her say. She pulled a stainless steel pan out from between my legs and showed me. In the pan floating in a clear liquid were two yellowish, pink eggs, like two hen’s eggs, with blebs of flesh of some kind attached, and a few small veins on the surface, a large vein of some kind running across one side.

I looked again.

Then I looked again. There was nothing else they could be!

I looked down! My vision was blocked by the sheet — I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t feel anything. There was nothing to feel. What was she doing? What had she done? I felt rising horror! An awful fear rose up in my stomach and flushed though my body! I came suddenly fully awake.

“Nooooooooohhh!” Someone in agony. A terrible wail echoed in the tiny room.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” the doctor said. “This is very tidy work down here. You have no basis whatever for complaint!”

Aurora! What had she done? The doctor continued down there, and I could neither see or feel! But I knew! There was nothing there! Not any more! Nothing!! Was my penis … ?

As if answering the question, the doctor said, “I’m taping your penis to one side, to keep it out of the way until the wound heals. There’s a catheter in it now, so you won’t need to pee. I’ll remove it tomorrow before we discharge you.” She looked up and smiled. “I mean remove the catheter, of course! My but your pulse jumped when I said that! No, this is only an orchiectomy.”

There was nothing for it. My brain refused to register any more shock or fear. The tranquillizers held me firmly in their grip. I tried to think about it. Nothing to think about any more. Oh, my God! I blacked out.

II.

When I came to, there was Aurora sitting in a chair in a small hospital room of sorts, looking at me with some concern, but mostly prepared to be pleasant and cheering. She was wearing a business suit, and looked as if she’d stopped off on her way somewhere else. Previously I’d only seen her wearing a shirt and jeans, and then usually for not long.

“Well, good afternoon, lover,” she said brightly. “You’ve been out a few hours!”

“Aurora,” I said. My throat was very dry, and she handed me a glass of water from the bedside table. I sipped it and held it out to her, but she didn’t seem to think to take it back. So I held it very carefully on my chest with both hands.

“Aurora, do you know what they did?”

“She did, dear. It’s a very simple operation, and doesn’t really need a team. Yes, I know. She told me everything’s perfect, and you can be home tomorrow. I mean to take you home with me, to see you get everything you need. The wound will be fine in a week, but some things take longer.”

“Did you tell her to? We’d just talked about an implant, remember.” Did we? I felt the first stirrings of anger, but they didn’t go anywhere. I was blitzed out. The drugs, still, maybe.

“This is much better, dear. I told you why. Hormones conflict, and can do you injury. You don’t need them. You’ll want to do the things I want you to do. I have plans for us.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Aurora, they were mine. You shouldn’t have.” For some reason I felt tears starting up in my eyes, but they got no further than the anger. “You shouldn’t have,” I protested again. It sounded weak. Altogether inadequate. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Well, we’ll agree to differ on that. It’s done, and we can’t cry over spilt milk. Don’t worry, love, I’m going to take good care of you. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. We’ll be better than we ever were, and we’ve been very good, haven’t we?”

She reached over to ruffle my hair and smiled at me. I smiled back — and I didn’t feel like it at all, but I couldn’t help it. Tears started up again, and a desolated feeling. But the feeling went nowhere. I just looked at her.

“You’re still a little zonked, I see. I have to go now, pet. Things to do.” She took the glass of water out of my two hands, where I realized I had been clutching it on my chest, lying very still for fear of spilling. She put it back on the night stand. “You don’t need this any more. I can see you’re not going to make a fuss,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to take you home. My home, so I can look after you, until you’re all well and can get used to things. Don’t worry, I know how to appreciate you.”

She stood, and I looked at her, really, for the first time since I woke up. She seemed a different person. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her head, and her make-up was…perfect. She was smoothly, impeccably groomed. I’d never seen her like that. Previously she’d come to my house with her hair down and tousled, and a minimum of makeup. But now she looked smoothly, impeccably groomed, invulnerable. Untouchable. She held out her hand to my face, fingers dipping down, as if she wanted me to kiss the back of it. As if she were used to being saluted that way. As it approached my mouth I saw her forefinger and middle finger close, open, and close again. Unmistakably. Even so, without knowing why, I kissed the back of her hand as she wanted, and then looked up into her eyes. She was pleased.

“Snip,” she said softly. “That’s my girl.”

The next morning I was a little less woozy, and woke with two firm realizations. One was that my balls were gone, and that was that. All the resentment in the world wouldn’t bring them back. The doctor had done what she thought I wanted, and had asked me twice, and I had signed for it. I just hadn’t picked up on her cues while we were talking. The second realization was that I wanted nothing further to do with Aurora. She’d betrayed me cruelly to gratify what, her own whim? I wanted to get things in my life back to the way they had been, as far as possible, and get out.

So when the Doctor came in the next morning to check her work, and change the heavy compress for a light pad held with adhesive, I asked her how long before i was fully healed.

“Soon,” she said. “By tomorrow you won’t need a bandage, just a Kotex pad for a few days. In a week the incision will have grown together and just panties will be enough. Then maybe a few more days until your ghost testicles stop paying you visits in the middle of the night.”

Obviously this doctor was accustomed to talking to women, but she sounded reassuring.

“Now, something else,” she said. “Technically, right now you’re a eunuch. Your body’s manufacturing traces of the hormones you need to maintain firm skin texture, and other sex characteristics, and above all to maintain sexual desire. But not enough. In a few days you’ll lose all interest in that part of life, when what’s there now is used up. So we need to replace the hormones your testicles once manufactured with the other kind right away. You understand this, don’t you.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve discussed it with Aurora That’s what I came for.”

“Good,” she said. “Then you already know what Aurora wants for you. But it’s your choice.” She began preparing different hypodermic needles, filling them with fluid from several ampules. “Now, you can have it one of two ways. A time release shot that will last a month, once it’s in you, and really flood your system. You won’t be the same when it gives out and come back here for more, believe me! There will be radical changes in your body. I’ve seen it before, in the other men Aurora brought here. The muscles they grew? You better believe it!”

More reference to other men. Well, I’d never had reason to believe I was the first man in Aurora’s life, or even the first she’d gotten castrated. Heck, she’d started using boys to gratify her power tripping whims in the high school! That seemed to be her thing. And there was no doubt she preferred high performing men to ordinary men. I wondered if these hormones the doctor was talking about would make my prick grow longer too.

“Sounds possible,” I said. “What’s the other way?”

“A sustaining dose that won’t change much of anything, that you can see. Not right away. A shot now to get you started, then pills to maintain a tolerable level of hormones in your blood. Whatever may happen will happen much more slowly. Years, instead of months.”

Well, I thought, if I’ve got the disadvantages, I may as well have the advantages too. “I’ll go with the time release shot,” I said. “Heavy duty. All the way. You know.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “You’re sure? Once I inject these, there’s no turning back.”

“I’m sure,” I said. I was wondering if those heavy muscle men grow additional hair. Well, I’ll find out.

She had me turn over, and then she injected me four times in the butt, two in each cheek, enormous doses it looked like.

“You’ll feel nauseous for a few days, perhaps, while your body adjusts,” she said. “A little like morning sickness. Aurora’s brought you your clothes meanwhile. You may want to dress while you wait for her to take you home.””

When I checked over what Aurora had brought, I saw they weren’t my clothes at all, but hers. Panties. A full skirt of some soft material. A white silk blouse with a large bow at the neck. Slip-on flats, and no socks. And a bra. Well, I guess there there was no way she could get into my apartment to get me a change of clothes, so she had to bring me hers, whatever might fit. A skirt would be easier to put on than pants right now, for sure. But why the brassiere?

I asked her when she arrived. Again she was wearing a richly textured, fashionably cut, expensive-looking suit, and small diamond studs in her ears, and stockings, and high, high heeled pumps, looking like an ad in the Sunday New York Times. Again, hair and face impeccably groomed. Why hadn’t I noticed earlier that her nails were always polished, perfectly groomed? She looked at me and answered, “Never mind about the brassiere, I’ll tell you when we’re in the car. Just put it on now, and let’s go. Here, I’ll help you.”

Downstairs at the main entrance there was another surprise. Not the little old Toyota we’d arrived in, but a long, black Mercedes limo. With a driver, wearing a cap. He leaped out of his seat as we approached, and politely opened the rear door for us to enter, a little like a giant picking up a toothpick. He bowed way down to do it — he was huge, and his effortless ease when he moved suggested enormous strength. Face large, craggy, tanned, and handsome, with gleaming white teeth, and wide shoulders tapering to his waist.

“Please, ma’am,” he said as Aurora swept past him into the wide rear seating area, and settled herself.

“Thank you, Charles,” she replied.

“And you, ma’am,” he said, waiting for me to get in. I glanced to see if he was mocking me — not a hint of it. So I got in without a word. I felt sore down below. He got back behind the wheel, hunched his heavy shoulders, and we started out.

“Aurora,” I said. “Renting a chauffeured limo to console me, to make it up to me, what you’ve done. I appreciate it, but it won’t help. I don’t need it. What’s done is done. But when I’m healed, I won’t want to see you again. You’re too much like my ex-wife, too determined to have your own way. I’ve had enough of that.”

“No,” she said. “You’re wrong, pet. First of all, this car isn’t rented, it’s mine. And Charles works for me. In fact he’s one of three men who work for me, all three of them hunks as gorgeous as he is. Isn’t he? Secondly, we’re not done, you and me. We’re only beginning. I can understand your resentment right now, but you’ll soon see that there are advantages to letting me have my own way. And I will have my own way. I’ve had it all my life. Thirdly, I’m not comparable to your ex-wife. I’m your employer.”

I was stunned. She sat quiet, having said all she intended to say. “You have money?” was all I could get out. A dumb question, obviously she did.

“Lots,” was all she replied. I looked at her. She was settled in for a long drive, apparently, glancing out the window now and then with her eyes focussed in the middle distance, not really looking at anything. She began glancing at a dispatch case in a rack on the rear side of Charles’s seat, and I realized I was about to lose her attention altogether.

“You said you’d explain why the brassiere,” I said, still a little numb in the brain as well as the groin. It was the only thing I could think of to say.

“Oh, yes. I’ll be direct, because apparently you object to my indirection. I want you to wear a brassiere. That’s sufficient reason. You’ll do well to get used to the idea immediately, so there’ll be no questions or problems by the time we arrive home. It’s a large estate and variously tended, but my personal staff are only the kinds of people I want them to be. Charles and his two associates are now well-trained, and I’ve lacked only someone like you to complete the roster. Like what you are becoming. I was delighted to find you some weeks ago, after a great deal of looking I might add. You’re perfect for the job. Or you will be.”

I was dumbfounded, but my brain was kicking into gear finally. Aurora was not the libertine, free-spirited dropout nymphomaniac she seemed when she took up with me. She’d pretended to be that kind of girl because, well, role-playing amused her, and I guess it gave her opportunities to test me. Her real purpose all along had been to lure me here into this limo, castrated and with high-test hormones spreading through me to make me into…what? Another hunk? Another Charles? She’s done three men already? How many men does one woman need dancing attendance on her?

“Aurora,” I said, annoyed. “Why four men to wait on you? Why me?”

She glanced at me a little more sharply, saw my puzzlement and a hint of the indignation I was beginning to feel, and then redirected her attention entirely in my direction. She turned toward me, and I saw that now, finally, I was going to get some answers.

“My dear,” she said in a quiet, steady voice, watching me closely. The playful, self-amused Aurora I’d known before now wasn’t anywhere to be seen. “Not four men. Three men and a girl. The girl to wait on me too, I suppose, sometimes. You are wearing a brassiere right now, at this moment, in part because as of now you are my resident girlfriend and companion — you’re amusing, and I’ll enjoy being with you. But mainly, you are an amenity for my household staff. So you need to dress appropriately. Really, that’s what you became the moment you saw those testicles of yours floating in the hospital pan, and the deed was done. That’s when your new life began.”

“Now, you ask, why you? You because I could see, soon after we first went to bed together and began playing our games, that you have the right submissive temper to do what I require. Few men are willing to play every game I want, but you’re one of them, I’m sure. You just may not know it yet. Also, you have the right bone structure to become a perfectly lovely woman when the your replacement hormones have finished their work.

“What are you talking about!” I began to raise my voice. I was starting to feel frightened. I caught a glimpse of Charles’s eyes in the rear view mirror, watching me closely. “You told me that once my balls were gone high-test testosterone would turn me into a kind of ideal guy. Like…Charles!” My voice began to fade even as I spoke. Was Charles one of her creations too? Probably. Were the other two hunks she’s mentioned? Were we all without balls, so her preferred hormones could do their things without interference?

“No, not like Charles. Testosterone replacement makes suitably endowed men into gorgeous hunks, like Charles. So it does. But I didn’t say that’s what I had in mind for you. You’re going the other way. Estrogen replacement, my dear. Massive doses of it. You heard the doctor. In only a month you’re going to begin looking like a lovely lady, with a lovely figure. Softer and rounder. And that’s what I need you to be.”

Now I was in another world. I felt like another person. I was losing my grip on my sanity. I reached out for it. “Aurora, why? What for?”

She took both of my hands and held them firmly in hers, and looked hard into my eyes until she saw me retreat from near hysteria back into bewilderment. Then she leaned over and kissed me, gently, on the mouth.

“My sweet darling, you could never be one of these men. Not with that cute little penis. That round little ass I love stroking when we’re in bed together. These guys have pricks double your size, or more. Telephone poles. And they were body builders even before I started pouring special testosterone and steroids into them. They’d lift weights all day even now if I’d let them, if I didn’t have other things for them to do around the estate. And that’s how I want them. That’s the kind of man I really love to fuck, and suck. The kind who can make me feel completely fulfilled as a woman, with manhood to spare. It’s like spreading your legs to a mountain, getting in bed with these guys, or like cocksucking a fire hose. And I like some of my sex rough, as you might have guessed from the way I’ve behaved in bed with you even after we’ve fucked up a storm. That’s something you can’t do for me, you’re so gentle and sweet. But these guys certainly can! Huge dongs slammed into me hour after hour, one after another! And always horny! Always ready for more!”

“Don’t feel bad, though. You’ll be my only girlfriend, and that’s special. Don’t be jealous of them. They’re my fucktoys, those hulks, but you’re my darling! Some nights I may just want to cuddle, and hug, and be licked, or just have fun kissing and caressing the way girls do. A friend to giggle with. To talk about girl things with. It’ll take time, but you’ll see, you’ll love it!”

“Some nights just you and me. But your main responsibility will be something else. I spend a lot of time out of town, looking after my various holdings. My three darling hunks are on lots of special hormones that keep them feeling pretty randy, you know, for whenever I may want them, and for however long. It can get pretty lonely for them when I’m away. Or if I’m wrapped around one guy all night and he’s fucking my brains out, nowadays the other two have to pass the time jerking themselves off in some corner. Or else thinking about doing each other.”

“You see, they’re all three bisexual. That shouldn’t surprise you — men who sleep with men often give lots of dedicated attention to their own bodies. They know better than to take up with other women when I’m not around, of course. These three guys are all mine, and I’ve paid for them to go through some very expensive conditioning to get them that way. So they’ll enjoy servicing me and no other woman.”

“But to answer your question ‘why me,’ that’s why you. To distract them from each other. They know you’re a man. No matter how lovely you get to be for me, and you will, pet, they’ll always feel attracted to you as a man too. As the best of both worlds, in some ways. When I’m not around or available, you’ll tend to their sexual needs the way they tend to mine. Darling, your main job will be to service them, to keep them happy. That’s why I’ve gone to all this trouble with you. No fear, in time you’ll come to love all that brute strength and muscle the way I do, wrapped around you and plunging into you.”

“Now, tomorrow I have to go out of town for a few weeks on business. Our guys will take care of you while I’m gone. They’ll want to wait on you hand and foot while you’re healing. You are going to feel like a pampered princess. Then after about a week, when you’re ready, I’ve asked them to take your cherry. Each of them. I’ve told them to make love to you as gently and beautifully as they can, so by the time I get back you’ll really love making love to them. Then we’ll have some girlish secrets to share with each other, won’t we.”

She hesitated, glanced out the window, then made up her mind and turned back toward me. “Dear, I may as well mention this now, so you can begin thinking about it. Some day you may want to become a complete woman. Of course you’ll look like one all the time, pretty and seductive, that’s your main job. But our guys would certainly appreciate another place to push their meat into you. If you had a vagina, they could do you properly when I’m not around, using either opening, the way they do now with me. They could try out new things with you, or practice on you some of the things they know I like. You know.”

“As you’re now arranged, your asshole is going to be pretty sore a lot of the time. Poor dear. Those big dildos we played with when you were being Camille or Cleopatra are not as big as our fellas. Trust me, that’s the truth. And there are three of them, remember. You may be glad to have another soft hole they can tuck themselves into.”

“Then too, it may be you’d enjoy straight sex sometimes, the way you used to. Of course I mean this time as a woman, their pricks fucking your vagina. And I’d love for you to have labia for me to stroke, and for your big clit to be remade into a cute little button I can flick with my tongue. So you may well want another operation some day to complete the job. But that’s up to you. Just give it some thought.”

I tried to think of something to say. Nothing came.

“Ah, I see we’re arriving. You see these walls, sweetheart? Even if you should elude our guys, and make it as far as these walls, don’t try to climb them. There’s broken glass and live electrical wire on top, to keep intruders out. You can feel safe and snug while you’re here. You’ll always be well-looked after.”

“Next week will be such fun for you! Soft music, romantic candlelight, gifts of flowers and sexy underwear, everything they can think of to make you feel glad you’re a woman. I’ve told them that in the future you’ll be their slut, or schoolgirl, or schoolmarm, or flower girl, or whore, whatever they like. All of the reverse roles we played together, and more. Even a girl pretending to be a pansy boy, if they miss their old ways and want to remember them. But that all through next week they must realize you are a young girl waiting breathlessly to be beautifully seduced by each of them, and behave accordingly. Do enjoy each of them, sweetheart!”

“Incidentally, that blouse looks charming on you, just as I’d hoped. You’ll love the wardrobe I’ve gotten you. Mostly everyday women’s clothes, of course, many of them as nice as mine. But also all kinds of gowns for all kinds of delicious games.”

As the car pulled up to the front entrance of the estate, two huge men in muscle shirts leaped attentively to the car doors on either side. I carefully maneuvered myself out of the limo — my crotch was still hurting a little.

Then the brute on my side said, “Hi, I’m Jason. I’ve been hearing a lot about you for weeks and weeks, now. I’m so glad we’ve finally met.”

He was built like a wall, but he couldn’t have been more solicitous and attentive. He handed me a welcoming bouquet, and then he offered me his arm.

I looked around for Aurora, but she’d already gone in. What else could I do?

I took it.

Categories
story text

“Just Dandy’s Just Desserts” from Riding Cult magazine

Summary: Justina Jay visits here rich friend Mirelle at her enormous ranch where she is holding a race meeting. The object of one of the races is to win, not because of the prizes, but because all the losers are immediately and summarily gelded.


Returning from my trip to Una’s island, off Turkey, I only had time to attend a couple of board meetings with my directors – naturally all women – when I was phoned and reminded by a chum in Kentucky that I had agreed to fly out for her big summer race meeting. It had slipped my mind, but I knew my pal Mirelle, a former Miss USA finalist, would be upset I didn’t attend. Trying to get my current house boy to pack in a hurry was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Eventually, in his haste, he managed to tear a chiffon dress. I was furious. Not tolerating idiot house boys gladly, when I left for the States he had been soundly flogged, and was shipped off to spend the rest of his miserable life on a sugar plantation which I own.

I actually arrived at Mirelle’s huge ranch a day early, in time for some relaxation. Mirelle is a very tall, leggy lady, who has a great love of the American dream, the great out-doors, unashamed luxury, a penchant for the bizarre, and an unrivalled loathing for males. It is common knowledge that her ex-husband treated her badly, and that now she is a staunch lesbian. However, apart from bruises, she did inherit something close to half a billion dollars when he died in a mysterious yachting accident. Rumors were flying at the time, but those of us who know her are quite aware of what happened to him.

Having freshened up, I went downstairs and was greeted by the lady herself. She looked absolutely magnificent, dressed like a cowgirl, with a teeny, fringed cowhide skirt and a fringed jacket, a ten gallon hat and a pair of brown pointed boots, which had a fierce looking set of rowel-spurs affixed. Curled around her fancy buckled belt was a sturdy round-up whip. She kissed me firmly on the lips; I was tingling and excited, so made no attempt at resisting when she poked her tongue into my mouth. We played for a while, our tongues rolling around together. In high spirits, she led me back upstairs and insisted I dress in an identical outfit to her own. She stood and watched, drawling exuberantly about her cattle and crop yields, as a male, in tight leather body suit, undressed and dressed me. What I found rather odd was the slave’s suit did not allow the bending of elbows or knees, or the twisting of the head. With arms permanently outstretched to his front, all movement was facilitated via the waist. Just for a bit of fun, before leaving, I ordered him to get my clothes unpacked from my trunks , then polish every single pair of shoes and boots which I had brought with me – about sixty pairs. Mirelle laughed and said. “Keep ’em busy, keep ’em busy.”

As we strode out of the ranch-house into the glorious sunshine, a couple of ranch-girls were holding a pair of handsome mustangs for us. I bounced up into the saddle and sat down on the broad American saddle, which felt like an armchair after a British saddle. Yanking my right rein, the horse turned. Mirelle and I rode side-by-side, chatting about tomorrow’s race meeting. Without a word of warning, she dug the spurs into the flanks of her mount, and galloped away. Naturally, I spurred up my horse and gave it a few hefty lashes on either flank with the reins. We rode out at the gallop for about a mile, until we came across a whole gang of cowgirls rounding up a herd of beef cattle. We entered what I can only describe as a dust bowl. The cowgirls were yelling and whooping at the animals, and the sound of crack after crack of their whips filled the air as they drove the obstinate beasts along.

Through the dust, I noticed that a number of naked, two-legged males were running about, trying to avoid the cowgirls’ whips and the hooves of the heavy beasts. I saw one fall. Mirelle rode up and slashed at him with her whip until he scrambled to his feet. She whipped him into line, until he suddenly stumbled. The earth shook under the weight of the herd and he disappeared from view, shrieking as they ran across him. I could hear Mirelle laughing above the racket. Taking up my whip, I joined in the drive. A male ran in front of my horse and tried to dart away to one side. I jerked my mount’s head round sharply and pursued him, making sure that I caught him a few cracks of my whip before he fell down in front of me. It was an exhilarating feeling as I trampled him into the dirt, followed by three more cowgirls who galloped across the flailing body.

We drove beasts on and on, running as fast as they could towards the corrals. There were two corrals, and Mirelle rode up beside me and told me that any of the animals could be driven into either, but that that they should end up with roughly equal amounts. Sitting around the rails of each enclosure were a number of cowgirls. As soon as the gates were shut, they waited for the cattle to settle, then jumped down into the rings. I sat back on my mustang, next to Mirelle, who was wearing a permanent grin. Asking my host what was going to happen, she would only say, “I’m making me a livin’.” About a dozen cowgirls in the first corral jumped onto a bull and pulled him over, turning him onto his back. Within a second, a Mexican looking girl with long jet black hair, knelt between the beast’s back legs and unceremoniously castrated it.

A girl pointed at a two-legged male, and all the girls chased him around the corral, caught him, dumped him onto his back and within a second the dark haired girl had sliced off his balls. Very soon, the cowgirls had finished the task of castrating both the four-legged and two-legged cattle in the first corral.

“Now we brand ’em”, Mirelle informed me, looking on with interest, chewing a piece of gum. Mirelle dismounted and strolled over to where a brazier had already been set up. As one of the males was pinned down with a few girls sitting on his back, his rump help up firmly in readiness, Mirelle pulled the branding iron from the glowing heat. She spat on it, and it hissed like a snake. Slowly she wafted it about the male’s face and head. He struggled and wriggled in the dirt, and Mirelle smiled broadly. Then she licked her lips and moved it closer and closer to the flesh. The beast struggled frantically. Finally Mirelle pushed it firmly onto the left buttock. There was a scream and hiss as the iron imprinted the mark of the owner. Mirelle held the iron in position and counted slowly to ten, then handed it to the dark haired girl. Mirelle remounted her horse, and we watched together as the girls went through and branded every animal in the pound. They were then driven, ball-less and branded, into a huge cattle shed.

Now attention was turned to the remaining corral of beasts. With no idea where we were going, I followed Mirelle and the others as they began to herd the cattle along a corridor towards a huge corrugated building. We then tied up our horses and entered the building through a side door. Six girls yanked along a huge beast by a chain around its neck, while others cracked it’s rump with their whips. They led it into a tight metal pen, and I could see what was about to happen. Its head was pinned down firmly between two clamps, then a large busty red head pulled down a bolt-gun. There was a bang. A bit of a struggle ensued as the cowgirls pursued a two-legged male and frog-marched him, yelling, towards the metal pen.

Later, as we walked back towards the ranch-house, Mirelle said, “Darn it, Justina, it’s all cattle. The castrated ones get a stay, anyhow. Fatten ’em up for a bit longer.” I felt no guilt that evening as I sat around the table chatting with the other guests, and tucked ravenously into a thick, juicy steak.

The next morning, I was bathed and dressed by my attendant, and went down for breakfast by the pool. The whole ranch was buzzing about the day’s racing, and Mirelle was already greeting guests. Both visitors and staff talked excitedly about the ponies which they fancied would win. As I sipped my buck’s fizz, I was presented with a program of the afternoon’s events, which included a form guide for each of the eight races. The highlight, as it had been for the last four years, would be the Mirelle Kentucky Derby. There were nine prime colts contesting this year, all of whom had been entered by their various owners and trained by their specially designated trainers. Although a winning pony can be sold, that is of no importance, and the real spirit of the competition is to show off the skill of the owner, trainer and jockey.

At one o’clock the track side marquees were packed with joyous ladies, all present to enjoy a good afternoon’s racing. Following an announcement on the public address system and a fanfare of trumpets, played by young ladies in sort of mock beefeaters uniforms, the gates at the far end of the course were opened and our procession of coaches set off on their way towards the start line. Mirelle and her two nieces occupied the front carriage, and myself and the Countess Olga of Austria occupied the second carriage. Behind us came three other carriages. Each vehicle was luxurious and decorated with splendid ornate gilt work, and pulled by four huge, sturdy pony slaves.

They wore fancy harnesses and bridles, with bells around their ankles, and horse hair plumes which sprouted from their headgear. I sat back and waved as we passed the cheering crowd to travel the mile or so along the straight course. The animals were required to execute an exaggerated high trot, with legs rising up and down in unison, feet turned neatly inwards and landing on tiptoes. Our driver and foot woman sat before us, resplendent in their coats and top hats. The poor darlings must have been baking, and I was only too grateful that I had chosen to wear an extremely lightweight dress which allowed a cooling breeze to flow across my body. One of our ponies fidgeted and tried to accelerate, this disobedience was immediately punished with a firm tug on his reins and a couple of sharp reminders with the driving whip.

Arriving in what Mirelle had named the royal enclosure, a tape was cut by Countess Olga and the race meeting was pronounced open. I strolled down to the paddock with Mirelle’s young nieces, Bobbie and Beccy. Both of them were high spirited girls, but they maintained that very serious air that seems to be so much expected of young American ladies. Their dresses were finely cut to conservative length, just below the knee. Bobbie’s showed off a mere glimpse of cleavage, each wore a small hat with a ribbon. My own dress was much shorter and lighter, and my hat was a huge gay affair. We arrived at the ring to find the stable lasses parading their charges. All of the day’s races were in harness and across the flat. At other times of the year, minor meetings take place where ponies are saddled and ridden across obstacles, and also harnessed and driven across specially prepared, rough and bumpy courses. These other races are classified as hunts and chases.

There was an appreciative clap as the jockeys arrived in the paddock, dressed in colorful silks and thin white jodhpurs. The first race was for novice jockeys and novice ponies. Neither drivers nor ponies must ever have competed in more than ten races, and no pony must have ever won a race in its career. Due to these criteria, Beccy said she would bet on Amy, an old chum, whom she was confident had the strength and determination to drive any old nag to victory. Bobby decided that she would back the favorite, and I decided to go by form and weight. Amy, I’m sure, was a very capable driver, but she looked rather heavy at over ten stone to win on a pony that had only ever carried a seven and a half stone jockey in the past. I noticed that of the fourteen runners, one likely lad looked very fit and alert. His ears pricked up as his jockey, a cool looking girl with a long ponytail, mounted her buggy. She held the reins tightly as the pony’s stable lass tightened the harness and led him towards the entrance of the track. We put on our bets and went to watch the runners cantering down to the start. Amy’s mount looked very hot and was sweating up, and it seemed as if pulling Amy’s weight down to the start line was enough for him. Sure enough, she crossed the finish line, frantically whipping her exhausted pony home, in last place. Beccy was furious and went along to help her chum take the skin off the pony’s hide. Most losing ponies received a well-deserved thrashing. My selection had passed the post second, which I felt was fair, but really I’m only interested in winners. Bobbie’s choice had finished well down in the middle of the field and was whipped by its jockey all the way back to the stables.

The next race was for geldings only, and it was won by a smart looking lad which I managed to select and have a bet on. Beccy and Bobbie were most put out. A colts race followed. None of us picked a winner, which Bobbie assured me was due to their unsound temperament. And next came a race which has to be one of my all-time favorites; the beauty therapists Gelding Challenge Handicap. The race was devised by a consortium of beauty therapists, and is of great novelty value. It is a challenge to owners of high class colts who have the nerve to put their ponies on the block. All ponies must have won no fewer than five good class, listed races. Only three of the fifteen brave owners would have a pony which would ever compete in high class races again. Any pony failing to finish in the first three would be returned to the harnessing enclosure and gelded, hence making him eligible only for chases, disqualifying him totally from the prestigious flat races. The lady with the microphone explained all this to the spectators.

A huge crowd of ladies collected around the parade ring as the colts, harnessed and ready to run, were led in by the stable girls. When all the turnouts were in the ring, they were halted and their groin covers removed. Some of the younger spectators whistled. Beccy and Bobbie laughed and clapped, “I’ve got the winner of this’n”, boasted Beccy. “Look out for the one with the biggest balls!” She then relayed a theory that because each pony was effectively running to save his plums, the one with the biggest ones would run the fastest because he had the most to lose. Bobbie laughed hysterically and said that Beccy put forward this theory every year, but had yet to choose a pony which had retained his right to keep his balls.

The ponies were paraded round and round until eventually the jockeys filed into the ring. A lass pulled her charge to a halt right in front of us and held him firmly as a petite jockey approached. She came up to the lass and asked what chance she thought she had. “Pretty good”, replied the lass. “Except the handicapper has given us a bit to do.” I had earlier thought the same as I looked at the penalty weight which the colt had been given. Beccy gave me a nudge and gestured at the leather bands which were attached just under the pony’s knees. The pockets of the bands were bulging with carefully calculated lead weights. Bobbie couldn’t see the problem, saying that the handicapper knew her job, and the animal had obviously earned the extra weight. Before getting into the little buggy, the blonde jockey whispered into the ear of her mount, and gently rubbed his great, fat balls. This seemed to unnerve the animal, and we watched with some dismay as his member started to stiffen and rise. Bobbie and Beccy watched with disgust and sipped champagne. The jockey continued to rub him, and I heard her say, “if you don’t win, boy, then we’re going to have to cut these off.” He was a highly strung colt and started to toss his head and crunch on the bit.

Suddenly, the colt flung his head to one side and caught the blonde jockey an almighty bash in the face. In a second he had yanked the reins from the stable lass’s fingers and proceeded to dart off across the ring. As the jockey cried “OW!” and held her face, I instinctively nipped under the barrier fence and ran after the wayward animal, followed by the stable lass and a number of other spectators. We encircled the animal. He looked scared and jumpy. As I slowly approached him, I gently called out, “Good boy, Good boy. We’re not going to hurt you.” I walked up and he trustfully let me take his reins. Then, as another lady took the reins from me, I walked cautiously around, and with the minimum of movement, slipped up into the seat of the buggy. Very carefully, the reins were passed back over the pony’s head and handed to me. The pony tried eagerly to twist his head round towards me, but his harness made it impossible. He champed at the bit, and when I was sure that he was calm, I pulled on the reins and reversed the turnout away from the rails and into the center of the enclosure. A cheer went up from the ladies in the crowd, and I could see champagne classes raised everywhere. I watched with sympathy as the young jockey was led away in tears to the medical tent. As the pony’s lass, Sherry, and its owner, Miss Fox, came over to thank me, I was just about to dismount when Miss Fox asked me if I would substitute for the injured driver. Pointing out that although I was a proficient pony handler but not a licensed jockey, the owner looked across at Mirelle. Mirelle smiled and nodded. Having accepted the challenge, a great cheer went up when it was announced over the loudspeakers that I would drive pony number nine, Just Dandy. Miss Fox was keen to have her animal raced in this event, and as the other competitors had started to leave the paddock, it was obvious that I wouldn’t have time to change or have the weights adjusted. Miss Fox said that as I was obviously much taller than her original jockey, there was no problem about the weighing in above the handicapper’s stipulated weight. It didn’t matter that the pony would have an extra stone or two to pull. It seemed pointless to suggest that we remove the lead weights from around his knees, and Sherry had already mentioned that it was time to get him down to the start.

Beccy and Bobbie jumped up and down excitedly as I walked the pony past them towards the exit and out onto the course. “Good luck”, said Sherry as she unclipped the lead rein. Although unprepared to participate in a public race this afternoon, I sat back and decided win or lose I would enjoy myself. I clicked my tongue and kept a firm hold of the reins, making sure that the lad wouldn’t try to run away with me. He cantered on smoothly, but tried to toss his head about. I took a firmer grip on the reins to ensure that the bit would be cutting into the corners of his mouth, to alleviate the problem. The last thing I wanted was a difficult race on my hands. Following the string of turnouts, I eventually arrived at the start. Just Dandy was sweating up and seemed to be breathing rather heavily. Was I mad? Did I stand any chance whatsoever of driving the colt to victory?

Walking slowly round, I kept my mount’s limbs moving as we waited to be lined up by the starter. One by one, the jockeys were called to pull their ponies into the line-up. Number nine was called, and I steered my pony round next to the others, checking him to make sure that he didn’t overstep the mark and risk disqualification. The girl next to me smiled and wished me good luck. As I slid the swishy driving whip from its holder, my pony’s ears pricked up and he started to fidget. Even as a novice, I knew that one must never touch a pony with the whip until racing has started, as it could send it off prematurely. Using the reins, and gently shushing him, I tried to calm him down. The anticipation was electric as the starter took up her position with her flag. All the ponies were shuffling nervously, their finely honed muscles twitching, and their bodies gleaming with sweat.

The Flag dropped and there was an instant flurry of sharply cracking whips all around me. Copying the style of the other jockeys, I flicked my wrist back and forward, stinging the pony’s rump with a very fast flurry of little cuts. Already I must have been two lengths behind. There was a mile to run. Having accelerated their mounts to the desired pace, the others settled down, holding off on their whips for the moment. With half a dozen cuts, we passed the four back markers. We were on the outside as we came towards the left hand and there was no chance of me pulling in. Instead, I kept my mount steady and we raced alongside the others. Suddenly, the pony’s foot slipped. He stumbled and I found us veering sharply inwards. The jockey next to me yanked back on her reins, but there was nowhere for her to go in order to avoid me. Hooves were thundering all around me. Natural instinct told me to thrash his left flank. As I did, he lurched away to the right and picked up his footing. I tried to steady the buggy by pulling him back, but I found myself swerving uncontrollably to and fro. Eventually, as I was pulled this way and that, I straightened him up, eased off the reins and whipped him up again.

The other colts had now rounded the bend and were several lengths ahead. Tactics were far from my mind. I was incensed by his mistake and being left, once again in last place. We had now negotiated the only bend of the race and the straight stretched out before me. Using all my strength, I slashed the whip down across his rump, for a split second he shook his head and hesitated, until I caught him again with another stinging slap, when he jolted forwards, bending into the traces. Although we accelerated considerably, I was in no mood to let him down. I drew back my arm and let go with another enormous crack of the whip, which cut open his hide. His muscles were straining and the sweat was pouring down him. A lump of foam from his mouth went flying past me. As I kept at him with the whip, I gained on my rivals. We passed a sturdy, black pony on the left, then worked up through the field. All I could see then, in the distance, was the winning post as we flew by the five hundred yard marker. With all my effort I kept the whip cracking across his back and flanks.

There were just three girls ahead of me, and I was driven by an exhilarating urge to win. The four hundred yard marker post went by as I moved up alongside the third. Glancing across, I noticed the jockey was making virtually no effort to keep up with me, and I accelerated past her. My pony started to slow down. His legs were drooping as if they were turning to lead. I cracked the whip across his calves, again and again, and he lifted his legs. We came up to challenge for second place. Stride-for-stride we headed towards the line together. The jockey at the front was very experienced. She glanced round at the two of us battling it out for second place, and smiled. With a hundred yards to go, I punished my pony for slowing. “Get on!” I yelled. The ladies in the crowd had jumped to their feet and were shouting, it was an incredible atmosphere. The girl I was battling for second place with now flicked her whip and cracked it across her mount’s broad back. He instantly responded and quickened, and the more she drove the whip across his back the faster he went.

My pony was flagging badly. I furiously scolded him and changed my whipping arm. The lazy beast now stumbled and swerved, refusing to run in a straight line. With increasing vigor I struck out with the whip, as I could see the lady who was second now challenging for first place. A jockey with bright orange hair went flying past me, her whip flying up and snaking vertically along the length of her pony’s buttocks. In desperation, I tried to use similar strokes. Another girl flew by, then another. All their ponies looked much fresher than mine. Just when I thought that I had been passed by all the other competitors, I heard a lady yelling behind me. She was very close behind as I could feel the air move as her whip hissed through the air and cracked sharply against her pony’s flesh. The winning post was now coming up, as I glanced round, I wasn’t interested in anyone in front of me, just this lone driver gaining on me.

Cracking my whip in all directions across my pony’s shredded back and rump, my only consideration was to endure that I didn’t finish in last place. With all my force I let fly, stroke after stroke. My lone competitor pulled up by the side of us. She was screaming at her pony to go faster and her whip was flying through the air in all directions. I shouted at my colt and thrashed him. Next to me I could see the shiny wheels of the other buggy glistening in the sunlight as they gently whirred around and around. We were running neck and neck, I looked at her and she looked at me, it was as if we were locked in mortal combat. She gritted her teeth angrily, I don’t know if it was at me or in sheer frustration. Both of us raised our whips and slashed the sweating, straining rumps before us.

Relentlessly I kept my animal going. Ladies in the crowd were shouting and whistling. A whole mass of them were leaping up and down. I wouldn’t give up. Nor would my adversary. Perspiration was literally running down her face, through her unceasing effort and determination. I let fly with another upward vertical stroke of the whip. Unfortunately it was like applying the brake. My mount almost leapt into the air and tumbled. Drawing back the whip, I realized that the end of it had flown up in between his legs. Perhaps it had caught him somewhere tender, but I didn’t really care. Once again I shouted at him and drove him with all my might. Only when I saw ponies being pulled up in front of me did I ease up with the whip and pulled back on the reins. The race was over.

I was puffing and blowing as I wrenched back on the reins and pulled my colt to a standstill next to my rival. She reached across and smiled, also breathing heavily, and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Joanne. Thanks, good race,” she said. “Justina, yes, it was good fun,” I replied, catching my breath. We both laughed as we realized that neither of us actually knew who had beaten who, it didn’t matter anyway. Both of our ponies were well whipped across their backs and rumps. I clicked my tongue, my pony groaned as he fell into the traces and we slowly moved forwards. His feet shuffled lazily and he was puffing and blowing like a steam train. Flicking my whip once across his rump to wake him up, I commanded him to trot on, and clicked my tongue at him. I decided that whether I had been last home, or almost last home, I wanted to arrive back at the dismounting enclosure with dignity. “Trot on!” I said sharply, and gave him a couple of necessary slaps. Joanne followed suit, yanking her pony round. We both made our ponies trot, legs lifting high into the air, as we drove along the track through the clapping spectators. The first girls home were greeted by smiling owners, trainer and stable girls. Our stable lasses and owners looked less than happy.

All the jockeys had to go and weight in, and Sherry, looking most dissatisfied, unstrapped Just Dandy’s leg weights and handed them to me. After Joanne, I weighed in, and was told that I had driven with two and a half stone above the handicapper’s weight. If I’d had time to sort out the weights, perhaps I could have actually won. As Mirelle presented the winning jockey, owner and trainer with trophies, and the crowd cheered appreciatively, I realized that it could have been me. Damn Just Dandy! Horrible little pony! The losing jockeys were required to re-mount and drive their charges across to the collecting ring. All those required to report were announced on the public address. Beccy and Bobbie came up and told me how amusing they, and seemingly the rest of the spectators, had found the race of the slugs for last place. Sherry led us across the ring, where all the losers had gathered, and Beccy, Bobbie and a lot of other girls followed.

We had to sit tight and wait in a queue, as we were officially placed last, we had to wait at the back. At the front of the queue, I saw the first pony unharnessed and shackled, legs spread wide apart, across a bench. A tall, very pretty blonde in a white coat appeared. We were too far away to see her exact movements, but from the shriek which rang out, everyone knew what was happening. So the queue moved forward. Joanne dismounted as it was her pony’s turn for the chop. She came across and offered me a cigarette. She lit it for me then lit herself one. We needed to relax after our exertions. We smoked leisurely as we watched the blonde expertly operate. Her mount was dragged away and it was our turn. Beccy and Bobbie had come along to watch. Just Dandy had now regained some strength and actually tried to struggle, the little bastard. His original jockey, sporting a bruised cheek, had also come along to watch. The blonde gelder was most professional. Beccy handed out glasses of champagne and we all stood about and watched.

Sherry took the gelding away to a stable and we all went off to enjoy the rest of the day’s racing. Much champagne was drunk, much fun was had, and in the evening Mirelle threw a huge party. Apart from losing the race, I had to agree that the whole meeting had been a great success. Mind you, I was pleased that Just Dandy had got what he deserved, and I had to congratulate the beauticians for thinking up the race in the first place. Apparently, Just Dandy will be running in some chases next year. You never know, if I feel the urge, I may even drive him myself.

I’ll keep you posted.

Justina. XXX

Categories
story text

“Betting the Ranch” by Richard Lovel

One summer while a teenager, Peter visited relatives who owned a small ranch in the hill country. The attraction of the place for him was not the pleasant green hills and sparkling natural springs, but rather his distant cousin Ashley, a buxom country lass about his own age. At a brief meeting several months earlier, the sexually precocious girl had given the inexperienced youth his first lessons in making out, in the back seat of a Chevrolet at a drive in movie. Obsessed by the memory of his adolescent seed spilling in her hands as her fingers slowly teased his virgin genitals, Peter eagerly anticipated the visit.

The day after his arrival, Ashley offered to show him around the ranch, which was devoted to the breeding of cattle. After pointing out the stock pens and some of the prize breeding bulls, she led him into a small, clean building filled with equipment unfamiliar to the city reared teenager. “This here’s our breedin’ barn. This is where we inseminate the cows to get them with calves. Also,” with a sly smile, “where we milk the bulls.”

This last remark confused Peter. “Milk the bulls — I don’t understand.”

“I don’t mean the drinkin’ kind. Where do you think we get all the sperm for the cows?” She giggled, “Remember what I did to you at the drive in?”

Peter blushed in understanding. “Oh.”

Ashley walked over to a stall, beside which a large stainless steel machine stood. “This here’s the extractor. We lead the bull into this stall and strap him down good so he can’t kick up a fuss. Then we stick this hose on his pizzle and let it suck away on him till he creams.” She held up a clear plastic tube attached to the machine.

Peter stared in fascination. “You mean it makes him… ejaculate… just like…”

“Yep, it milks away at their pricks until they shoot a load, just like jacking off. I get a kick out of watchin’ them. They don’t know what’s happening, but they sure know it feels good!”

“Gee, do you do that to all the bulls?”

“Well, all the breedin’ bulls. ‘Course the ones we don’t breed get castrated. We do that in this stall, too. Sometimes Paw lets me work the castrator myself, and he says I’m real good at it.” Peter shuddered at the callous cruelty in her voice.

But his eyes remained fixed on the extractor. Ashley played with the tube in her fingers, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “The extractor don’t work just for bulls, you know.”

“What… what do you mean.”

“I came out here once and caught the hired man with his pants off and his prick in the extractor tube. He liked it too, ’cause he gruntin’ just like a bull. I went and told Maw what he was doin’, and she came out and ran him off with the cattle prod, didn’t even let him pull his pants back on.” Peter’s lips were dry as he tried to imagine the scene. She paused for a moment, and then asked, “What do you think it would feel like, Peter, gettin’ milked like that?”

“I… I have no idea.”

She gave him a devilish grin. “Want to try it?”

He gaped open-mouthed at her suggestion. “You mean… me… in the…?”

“Sure. I’ll work the extractor on you, and you can see how it feels. I know you like gettin’ jerked off.”

“Well… yes, but…”

“Then what’s the difference? C’mon, pull your pants off and let me give you a milkin’.”

If he were alone, Peter would have relished the chance to try the novel stimulation. But he was reluctant to perform to such a humiliating and bizarre sexual act in front of his adored cousin.

“Ashley, I couldn’t! Not with you…”

“Oh, don’t be such a chicken! Will you do it if I take off something first?” With that she quickly unbuttoned her work shirt and spread it open. Peter gaped as her enormous bosom was bared before him. Rather than removing the shirt, she tied the loose ends together beneath her breasts, lifting and framing them for his view.

“There. I showed you my tits, so you pull down your pants. Go on now, do it.” At the sight of her abundant womanhood, Peter felt all resistance ebb from him. Almost in a dream he obeyed, fearing loss of the heavenly vision if he refused. Ashley made him step out of his trousers and underwear until he stood before her naked from the waist down. Aroused by the experience, his penis jutted stiffly in front of him.

She pointed at this manifestation and giggled. “See, you really do want to, don’t you? Come on, get down on all fours in the stall, like a bull.”

Peter did as she asked, even allowing her to fasten the restraints used for the animals. As he knelt on hands and knees, she took two wide leather belts which hung by rope from the ceiling and cinched them tightly around his chest and stomach, forming a sling which supported his weight. She then attached wrist and leg bindings which secured his limbs to the four corners of the stall. He waited nervously, helplessly immobilized, conscious of his naked organs dangling between his parted thighs, completely at Ashley’s mercy.

She gave his penis a flick with one finger and said sarcastically, “You don’t exactly have the equipment of a bull, do you, little cousin? This here tube might be a bit large for you. But that’s OK, ’cause I’ve got a small-size one we use for the cocker spaniels Maw breeds. It ought to be small enough even for your little pizzle.” She chuckled, obviously amused by the humiliating comparison.

She attached one end of the smaller tube to the extractor and then prepared to slip the other end over Peter’s penis. But first she paused, thoughtfully studying his organs. “You ever see an ol’ heifer about to be milked, cousin? That’s just about what you look like, right now. She’s got a big ol’ floppy udder full of milk,” — she hefted his male sacks in her palm — “and a long ol’ teat hanging down between her legs,” — she ran a finger lightly down the sensitive underside of his shaft. “You ought to hear her moo, when her sacks are real full and she’s just begging somebody to squeeze it.” She tickled the little tuck of skin just below the head of his member, driving Peter nearly mad with excitement. “You want me to show you how a country girl milks a cow, Peter, how we squeeze those teats in our hands?”

He cried in agonized frustration, “Please, Ashley! Squeeze me!”

“Well, I don’t know, little cousin, how bad do you need milkin’? I don’t hear you mooing. Tell me how much you need it.”

Peter bit his lip, trying to resist yielding to her humiliating game. But the teasing finger continued to torment his frenulum, and finally he surrendered all dignity, willing to do anything for the promised caress. “…m…moo… Oh Ashley, milk me! Moo, MOO, MOOOO!” Laughing, she grasped his penis in her hand and began squeezing it with a practiced motion. Peter moaned with pleasure and continued to imitate the sounds of a cow for her amusement.

After a few moments, she tired of this game and returned to the main objective. She slipped his penis into the extractor tube and circled an elastic band around the neck of his scrotum, fastening the tube securely in place. Then without any announcement she switched on the machine. Peter felt and indescribable sensation. It seemed as if the tube became a living thing, a pulsing insatiable mouth, a creature thirsty for his very essence, sucking hungrily at his organ even as a calf might nurse urgently at his mother’s teat.

Ashley left the machine to work on his genitals and, going around to the other end of the stall, sat down cross-legged in front of him. Her large bare bosom was almost level with his eyes. He longed for his hands to be free to feel it’s soft massiveness. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Peter?” she grinned.

“Mmm…yes, Ashley. It does…”

She leaned forward, bringing her breast within inches of his face. “I bet getting sucked like that makes you want to suck on somethin’, too. Don’t it, little cousin?” Her breast was only an inch from Peter’s mouth, and the prominently erect nipple jutted more that half the space to his lips.

“Please, Ashley, may I?” he begged. In answer she only giggled, and leaned forward. He drew the rosy bud into his mouth as eagerly as a famished infant and began sucking. Ashley smiled to observe that his nursing lips matched perfectly the rhythm of the extractor on his organ.

How long he could have remained thus before nature ended his rapture in an ecstatic release, none can say. For Peter was suddenly, without warning, doubly deprived as Ashley quickly pulled her breast from his mouth and shut off the extractor. He groaned in disappointment.

“Hold your horses, Peter, we aren’t through yet. I got something else to show you.” She walked over to a wall rack and took down an unfamiliar implement. “Know what this is?” She held up an iron tool about two feet in length, looking like a cross between a pair of fireplace tongs and a bolt cutter. She parted the handles, and pliers-like clamps opened at the end.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “N…No Ashley, I don’t.” Something about the look of the implement and the wicked glint in her eyes told him he didn’t want to learn.

“This here’s what we use on the other bulls, the ones we don’t want for breedin’. It’s called a bloodless castrator. See, this clamp end goes around their sacks, just above the balls. Then we give it a good PINCH!” She slammed the handles together, and the clamps closed mercilessly around an imaginary victim. Peter shuddered. “It’s not so bad as it looks. It don’t cut their balls off, it just breaks something inside, so in a couple of weeks their balls sort of wither away, and their sacks just hang there loose and empty. And it can’t hurt too much, because sometimes they don’t even know when I do it to them.” She giggled, “Especially if I’m milking them at the same time. I like to do that, so they’ll have one last time to remember what it was like.”

Peter felt an ominous foreboding at the direction of Ashley’s talk. “Uh… Ashley… I really have enjoyed this afternoon, and thanks for showing me the breeding barn, but I think it’s getting near supper time and we really ought to get back to the house now…”

“Naw, there ain’t no hurry, we got plenty of time left to show you how this gizmo works.”

She drew up a short stool behind him and sat down. “We put the bulls in the stall and tie their legs apart, just like you, Peter. That way we can get at their sacks easy.” She reached between his legs and began gently scratching his scrotum with her fingernails. Peter sighed deeply in spite of his growing anxiety. “We put the castrator right here, right around the top of their sacks.” She opened the handles and circled the neck of Peter’s scrotum with the pliers. The cold iron on his tender manhood made him wince.

“Please, Ashley… I don’t like this game very much. Can we go back now?”

She ignored him. Here voice changed, taking on a strange, alarming note of obsession. “You know that hired man I found out here? I didn’t finish tellin’ you about him. You see, I didn’t go tell Maw about him right away. I watched him for a few minutes, first, while he was playin’ in the extractor. Then he turned around and saw me watchin’ him, and the way he looked at me sort of made me mad. He was just starin’ at my tits, and that reminded me of how he was always rubbin’ up against me, trying to get a feel of them. That polecat just kept starin’ at me and jerking off, and then he even said, ‘Hey honey, take ‘em out and let me see ‘em.’

“Well that really made me mad, and I decided to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. I told him I’d show him my tits if he’d let me milk him just like a bull. Well that fool didn’t even suspect, and no time atall I had him strapped down, just like you. I showed him my tits like I promised, and I set the extractor to milkin’ him. But just when he was starting to let his milk down, I slipped the castrator on him like this and PINCHED!”

She squeezed the handles, very gently, but hard enough to clamp Peter’s helpless glands in a painful grip. “Ow! Oh please, Ashley, don’t! Let me go…”

She eased the pressure and removed the tool altogether, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. But then she reached down and flicked on the extractor. A moment later Peter felt the cruel metal again encircle his fragile masculinity and realized his ordeal was not over.

“It’s time to finish your milkin’, little cousin, and I’m going to make it real special for you.” She continued with a demonic giggle, “I’m gonna fix you, like we do the bulls, like I did that hired man.”

“No, please Ashley, don’t do it…” he begged.

“C’mon, Peter, let me castrate you. I bet you’ll like it. That hired man knew what I was doin’ to him, but he still had the biggest cum I ever saw. I think knowing it was his last made it really special for him. Let me do it to you.”

Although Peter was in a panic, realizing the peril he was in from the half-crazed girl, he tried to sound calm. “No, Ashley, I don’t want it to be my last, maybe sometime later, but I’m not ready just yet.” In spite of his terror, the he could not help thrusting his hips in response to the work of the extractor.

Her voice became intimate, tender, almost loving. “C’mon, Peter, do it for me. You really like me, don’t you?”

“…Yes, Ashley… but…”

“It’d be sort of like goin’ steady, like giving me your class ring, only better. This way, I’d know no matter what, you’d never get some other girl friend and forget me.”

“…but…” Peter was full of confused emotion. Notwithstanding the horror of what she proposed, some darker, mysterious urge began to stir within him. He squirmed about in his bonds, testing the unyielding grip of the tool on his testicles. What would it feel like, the ecstatic release, the moment of crushing force, the lifetime of chaste devotion to his beautiful despoiler. A nameless urge welled within him, reaching back through the millennia to a time when women ruled over men, and it was a coveted privilege for a man to sacrifice his masculinity to the high priestess of the Earth Mother. As the extractor drew him inexorably toward spending, these feelings warred within Peter. He moaned in his agony of confusion.

“C’mon little cousin, let me do it to you, let me castrate you. You really want me to, don’t you?”

As she spoke, Peter surrendered to the inevitability of climax. The pulsing suction urged him over the brink, and he began emptying his glands in gushing surges. The strong contractions of his penis were clearly visible to Ashley even through the plastic tube.

“Now, Peter! While you’re letting go– can I do it?”

In a delirium of sensation he moaned, “Please… Ashley… Please…” but he would never know for sure if he meant “Please don’t”– or “Please do.”

Regardless of the youth’s wishes of the moment, Ashley spared his manhood and laid aside the castrator. He long remained slumped in the restraining straps, speechless with the intensity of the experience, while Ashley gently cradled his sacks in her soft palm and patted his naked backside comfortingly. At last when he was rested, she released him and helped him to his feet.

“Did you really think I was goin’ to fix you, Peter? You sure creamed like you thought it was goin’ to be your last. C’mon, now. Didn’t that make it more exciting?”

Peter had to admit that it did. And though in the following weeks Ashley would thrill him with countless masturbatory treats– in the breeding barn with the extractor, in the hay loft with her knowing fingers, even once in the divine valley between her breasts– none would quite equal the intensity of that first experience.

As they walked back to the ranch house that evening, Peter could not help asking her, “Ashley, that time with the hired man. Was that just a story, or did you really…?”

She looked at him and smiled mysteriously for a moment. Then she said, “Hey! I think I hear Maw’s dinner bell. Race you back!”