Of Mouse and Man

Chapter 4: Ball Busting 101

Joanna had been renting a motel room where we’d meet for sex, and lately Mark would be there, too. She usually made me eat his come, as well as my own. On our last visit she had made me lick his balls, and then praise them. She had promised a new experience for this visit, but didn’t say what it would be.

When I entered the motel room Joanna had reserved for us, I was surprised to find there were five men there, besides Mark. She didn’t bother to introduce them to me. She just said they were friends of a friend of Mark’s. She didn’t tell them my name, but said them they could call me "Scrotty."

She said "Gentlemen, Scrotty will be showing you down to the exercise room. He would be very pleased if you would allow him to lick your scrotums. He has some experience licking balls, but he needs more. Make sure he does a thorough job, until your testicles are squeaky clean. I know you have not showered in several days to allow your nut sacks to ferment a little and get good and stinky, and I appreciate that. However, do not have him lick anything else, just your sacks.

"Scrotty is also bringing a bottle of cock oil. He will kneel in front of each of you, and promises to provide you with a thorough genital massage. He has some experience jacking off a man, but again he needs more. If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it if you’d just stand or sit still and allow him to masturbate you until you orgasm. His mouth will be open to receive your semen. Please make sure he swallows every drop from each of you. Do not make him do anything other than lick your balls and then hand-job you."

She turned to me and said "Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you, as long as you do what you’re supposed to do. And I’ll take good care of you after. Have fun. Oh, and be sure to thank these gentlemen as you service them." She handed me a small bottle of sex lubricating oil, of the sort one buys in an erotic gift shop. "I’ll be here. Mark and I have some fucking to do. Join us when you’re done."

Two of the men stepped forward and took hold of my arms, lifting my elbows.

"Let’s go, Scrotty," one of them said.

Later, during the usual handjob she gave me, I had to describe each ball sack to her and tell her how it tasted, describe each cock and tell her how long it had taken the men to orgasm while I stroked them, etc.

I told her that the first guy had told me to purse my lips as though I were saying the letter "o" and to hold my mouth in that position, instead of holding my mouth wide open. When he was ready to come, he pushed forward until the head of his cock was wedged into the opening of my mouth. He then grabbed hold of both my ears to keep my head in place while he came. He said that way there would be no spillage. The other men thought that worked fairly well, so they all did it.

She made me describe the quantity and flavor of each of their loads. What I didn’t tell her about was the insulting things they said to me during this whole process.

I told her I didn’t like the fact that I hadn’t had any warning about the night’s activities or any choice in what I had to do, and that I had now licked enough scrotum to last me for quite a long while, thank you very much. I was very close to finally walking out on her, and she realized that and told me that she understood, and that from now on we’d get together, just the two of us.

Anyway, she said, she had some new activities planned that only involved my testicles.

I was glad to have her to myself again, but it turned out what she had in mind for my balls was to use me as a guinea pig to test fly her two new testicle inventions, neither one of which I enjoyed very much.

The most painful testicle experience she put me though happened when she invited me to meet her at a friend’s house. The friend was out of town and had asked her to stop by and take care of the cat and water the plants, so she figured we could use house. When I arrived she told me to look under the dining room table.

To the underside of the big table, her small hair dryer had been duct-taped. On the floor was an electrical switch with a wooden arm attached to it. The switch was wired to a small, battery-powered aquarium pump. A plastic tube ran through the pump. One end of the tube was immersed in an ice bucket full of water and ice cubes. The tube ran from the ice bucket, through the pump, and to the underside of the table, facing the hair dryer, where the tube ended. The end of the tube was taped to the underside of the table, opposite the hair dryer.

"What is this?"

"It’s the prototype of a home testicle exercise unit."

"Excuse me?"

"Home. Testicle. Exercise. Unit."

"This device will exercise the testicles?"

"I believe so."

"Why?"

"Listen, there are exercise machines for everything else, right? There’s a fortune to be made here. I want you to help me test it. It’s fully automatic. All you have to do is lay on the table."

"What are you going to do to my nuts?"

"Give them a workout. Just help me pull the table open."

The dining room table separated in the middle, so that an extension piece could be added to make it longer. We pulled it apart, then pushed it back until there was a gap of only two inches or so in the middle of the table.

"Now, take off your pants and lay down on the table with your balls hanging in the open space there. Go ahead, it’s perfectly safe."

As I undressed she held up a small brass weight, which was cylindrical and flat on the bottom, with a loop at the top, through which a soft cord was threaded.

"I’ll have to suspend this weight from your testicles, but don’t worry, it’s not very heavy."

She went into the bedroom and returned with a large mirror, which she put on the floor, propped against a chair. The mirror allowed me to look under the table to see what went on down there as I laid on top of it.

I watched as she tied the weight to my scrotum, above my balls. It wasn’t too heavy, but did tend to pull my nuts straight down. She dipped her hand into the bucket of ice water and then cupped my balls with her cold fingers, causing them to pull in toward my body, a little. She positioned the wooden arm of the electrical switch under the weight hanging from my nuts. It was about one inch below the hanging weight.

"Are you ready?"

"I guess so."

She reached under the table and turned on the hair dryer. Then she clapped her hands excitedly and sat back to watch her machine in action. The dryer was at a low setting, and simply blew warm air against the front of my balls. I watched as the warmth had the intended effect, and my nut sack stretched and my balls hung lower and lower, which meant that the weight attached to them hung lower and lower.

When the weight had moved down enough to depress the wooden arm of the switch, the aquarium pump began to hum. In a few seconds, ice water began to flow against the back of my scrotum. The pump drew water from the ice bucket and sent it through the plastic tube until it flowed out the open end of the tube, right on to my scrotum. The cold water then flowed down over my balls.

As soon as the cold water hit my scrotum, my balls began to contract. As they raised up to get closer to my body, they lifted the weight off of the wooden arm of the electrical switch. When the weight was no longer pressing on the wooden arm, the switch went off and the aquarium pump stopped. I was back to where I had started, with warm air blowing on my balls again. Fairly soon, they began to descend again. When they were low enough for the weight to trip the switch, the ice water began flowing again.

"See how it works? Don’t look at me that way. I’m telling you there’s a fortune to be made here."

There was a dull ache in my nuts, from the moment she had attached the weight. It grew with each cycle of the testicle machine. By the fourth time my nuts felt the ice water, it began to hurt like hell. I told her I wanted to stop the experiment.

"How can it hurt so much? Don’t be such a baby. I’ve hung much heavier weights from your nuts before." That was true. She’d done a lot of strange things to them, actually, most of them painful. She put them in a ball stretcher once and then alternately immersed them into cups of ice-cold water and then very warm water, just to see what would happen. She had jerked me off with one hand while rhythmically squeezing my balls with her other hand just to see if I could still come while my testicles hurt like hell.

"Look," I pleaded, "I don’t know WHY it hurts so much, I’m just telling you I can’t take much more of this."

She made me lay there for three more cycles until the pain was unbearable.

I gasped that I thought I was going to puke, and she finally turned the device off and untied my nuts. She was very disappointed, and angry at me, as though my wimpiness had somehow cost her a fortune. I couldn’t believe she had been serious about trying to sell the machine in the first place, but apparently she was.

I made a mistake and told her it was a completely wacky idea in the first place. I mean, did she expect men would take to the idea? I painted a picture of virile men with muscular scrotums, going to the gym and flexing their scrotal muscles in the mirror, and watching their nut sacks bulge with muscles. I couldn’t help laughing.

One thing I can tell you about Joanna—she doesn’t like to be laughed at.

After the exercise unit episode, she decided that my leaving her with my nuts hurting was an end in itself. She told me that for all the disgusting things I did, I deserved to be kicked in the balls, and after a while, I guess I believed her.

She hemmed and hawed for a long time about how to accomplish this without actually damaging my testicles. She dismissed the idea of kicking me in the nuts, even gently, or slapping or punching them, because there was too much uncertainty. They could be injured that way, and there was no way to control how painful the experience would be.

Finally she hit upon what she considered the ideal solution. Before I left her the next time, she held up a strange looking device.

"What is that thing?"

"It’s a ball wringer. I invented it myself."

The thing she held consisted of two separate ink rollers, the kind a pressman would use to ink up a plate or stencil, much like a paint roller but much smaller and made of black rubber. The two were attached to each other by L-shaped metal brackets with adjustable bolts through them. By turning wing nuts on the bolts, the rollers could be brought closer together or separated farther apart.

"This is how it works," she said. She unfastened one of the rollers by pulling its center axle out of the hole in which it rested. She then brought the other roller up to my crotch and gently pulled my balls over it. Then she re-fastened the second roller over my balls. My balls were then between the rollers, and it was obvious that if she pulled on the thing, the rollers would turn and my nuts would be compressed between them as they passed through.

"Of course," she said, "if I tightened these bolts down all the way, your nuts would be pressed like clothes going through a laundry wringer. They’d be flattened completely. But that’s not the idea. I want to set this at a width that is just a little smaller than the diameter of your balls, so that they have to be compressed a measured amount as they pass through the rollers. That will give your testicles the equivalent of a solid pinching, but they won’t be squashed or ruptured or anything."

She made an educated guess as to how close together to set the rollers (later she would use a micrometer and make a decision after each visit on how much space for passage my testicles had earned that day).

"I’m not going to pull on this thing and cause you testicular pain. I want you to do it."

Then, and every time she used the device thereafter, I had to pull the thing off me, putting my nuts through the wringer while she watched.

It’s only slightly better than being kicked in the balls, let me tell you.