The vulnerability of men's balls fascinates me. I can identify with the women who get off on ball-busting. Of course, some just get paid to do it. I know very well the insecurity that causes men to crave ball-busting, to test themselves, to experience the unbearable and not cry like a baby. Ball-busting is a power trip for the ball-buster, of course—sort of holding a guy right in the palm of your hand. That applies to men and women.
I have written about the co-ed academy in Connecticut where I attended high school. When I went there, I never had seen a real-life penis and was wild to do so. I mean, I had a father and two older brothers who had one. Not to mention half of the population of the earth. How was I in high school without even seeing one, never mind playing with it? Was this a national security issue or something?
I solved my problem with Bruce Knickerbocker, son of my sophomore English teacher. But because she unexpectedly came by while I was enjoying her son's dick, wearing just my panties and bra, I spent a year of so dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder.
By senior year at the Academy, you tended to notice something. Young guys entering as freshmen were modest about nudity. Sure, they were crazed with wanting to see nude girls but being stripped and seen by other guys or girls was the ultimate unbearable nightmare. By senior year, the guys had worked through that feeling, not without a certain agonizing running of the gantlet. They got to like playing games like snapping towels at another guy's nuts in the shower room. They liked being seen.
Well, my senior year a new guy entered the academy as a junior. Name was Kory. I think he reminded me of Sal Mineo in old-oldies like "Fortune and Men's Eyes"—cute Italian boy, dark curly hair, short but with a super chest and shoulders. Very full of himself, Kory, when he arrived that September. I got interested; he was sexy and just bursting with macho. He looked at me, sometimes, but not as much as at some other girls with big wineskins slung over their neck (sorry, catty remark). I think I scored high on pretty pixie face with feather black bangs, smoldering brown eyes, tall and willowy, and with long, slender legs—but a little modest in the chest. Not just pink nipples pasted on a flat chest; there were hillocks, there. And with oddly large, dark nipples I think I got from my mom. But they were not Erector Sets.
I waited for a "scene" with Kory. I wanted to see his junk. And I wanted to see how he dealt with "Look, everyone! It's Kory's dick and balls!"
It happened at a pick-up softball game one October afternoon when the weather was too perfect not to be outside. They guys were playing, but some girls sort of hung around watching. Not the game, of course; the guys. See if there was any action.
Kory was a heavy slugger—those pecs and arms. Also, a fast and dead-on pitcher. And he had an aristocratic contempt for the nerds and dweebs—some of them playing that day, too.
So my friend, Walter, makes a rare catch of a flaming ball thrown to home plate by the second baseman. Kory is heading for the home plate at 100-yard-dash speed. Walter is stunned that he caught the ball, a little dazed, but he whirls and steps out to tag Kory as he comes steaming toward home.
Walter holds out the ball to tag him, but Kory gives a yell. Walter drops the ball. Kory gives a flying leap toward home plate, calling back to Walter, "Way to go, fart face!"
Walter picks up the ball, slowly walks home. I am guessing that Kory is in trouble. As a nerd and dweeb, Walter intelligently has devoted himself as though his life depended on it to the martial arts. He is rarely provoked because everyone at the academy knows to leave him alone.
He arrives at where Kory is accepting high fives. Walter comes up and says, "You called me a fart face?"
Handsome, smiling, still puffing, Kory barely looks at Walter. Incredibly, with the back of his hand he gives a little swat to Walter's balls, and says, "Get lost, loser!"
I am astounded. I want to run to Walter, who is bent over, face bright red, holding his balls in his hands. Interestingly, he is not making a sound. He is bent over, looking up at the smiling face of Kory, as though baffled.
"You try anything," says Kory, "and you get what you can't believe!"
I am getting excited. Ball-busting is not my only thing, but it turns me on. I want to get burrow down to where men live sexually, right in their balls. I figure I am about to see Kory in a rare moment.
Not long to wait. Walter straightens up like a shot. Kory smiles and begins to raise his dukes. But Walter does not retreat from fists, he dives inside them. Suddenly, Kory is upside down, his feet flying high over Walter's hip. He hits the ground hard.
Walter drops his full weight, his stomach and chest are on Kory's face, his left arm jammed under and around Kory to lock his arms. His weight knocks the breath from Kory.
With is right hand, Walter is whipping open Kory's belt, jerking open his trousers, shoving them down. He looks up and snaps, "Pants him!" Unbelievably, it is not a guy but Cynthia Reed, a sometime girlfriend of Walter's, who darts forward, giggling, and starts dragging down Kory's shorts and underpants.
I don't hear exactly what Kory is saying, from under Walter's chest, but he is screaming and pleading, whining like a man being castrated. He is weeping, now, as far as I can tell. Disbelievingly horrified at being "premiered" in front of senior guys and girls.
Wow, nice! Lots of curly, shiny, jet-black hair. I'm glad for him. He has nothing to be modest about. He has a long, thick penis, dark brown, with its foreskin already retracting. Is he aroused, already? In spite of himself?
On his belly is the healthy brown sack of swollen walnuts. Nothing to be ashamed of, Kory. Except now, he is shrieking at this exposure, this vulnerability, but Walter has him mastered. Kory knows his stuff is "out there"—all of it—but he can't even see it.
Poor Kory! We are clustered around, now. The girls are staring very intently at Kory's dick, its big head bare and glistening, every detail for our inspection, including the tender bud of flesh below the head between the fat cheeks of his dick's underside.
Suddenly, all eyes swerve over to Walter. He has grabbed the balls with his right hand. Kory tried to get his stuff down between his legs, to squeeze his legs shut. But Walter has plucked his sack and is holding it, squeezing till the balls are swelling tight against the scrotum. The vulnerability is total. Kory senses it and is flinging his body around wildly, shrieking, but to little avail. Dweeb Walter is much heavier, and he is stronger.
Now, Walter's thumb and forefinger form an "O," the forefinger coiled back, straining, ready to snap when released. Then, Walter's balls get their first revenge. The forefinger zaps into one helpless nut. We start laughing. Kory screams like a girl with a snake's head coming out her pussy.
Businesslike, Walter systematically zaps one ball after the other. Pretty soon we little panicked. This is awful. The guys can imagine it all too well. And the girls, like me, all know how guys react to a lot less abuse than this.
One girl cries, "Stop, Walter! You're killing his nuts! Stop?"
"Yeah," says one of guys, nervously, "give the poor bastard a break, Walter. You're murdering him."
Walter gets up. We see Kory's bright red, tearful face. With Walter off him, his hands fly down to cover his crotch and he curls into himself, moaning over and over, again, "Oh my balls, my balls, my balls."
The show is over. Walter snatches up Kory's shorts and underwear and walks away with them.
For a few seconds more, we study Kory. He's got a sexy body, with nice definition. Tight cute butt. Of course, he is writhing in the dust near home plate, nursing his agonized nuts.
Everyone decides that the play is over. At any moment, some staff of the Academy will come over to see what the hell is going down, here. I find myself alone looking down at Kory What can I do for him? He glances up at me, face tear-stained, just a little boy humiliated. As if to escape being seen, he gets himself up, with repeated sharp squeaks of agony. Naked from the waist down, he limps slowly toward the woods at the edge of the athletic field.
I follow. Not sure why. Turned on? Curious? He is dagging himself like a wounded animal toward the woods. Can't imagine how he must feel.
A few yards into the woods, he just drops. Flops backward into the soft, nut-odorous autumn leaves beside a brook. He begins weeping again. His hands are down there, covering.
