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Saturday, January 16, 2021

A Knight in the Dungeon - Jayse Version

Hello gentle readers! 

Apologies for my prolonged absence. I've been here, but I've been laying low. The worldwide health crisis combined with the economic and political crises happening here in America haven't been doing much for my mojo, so my artistic and creative pursuits have been on the back burner. But i've decided to come out of my shell for at least a little while, and share a few of my archived stories for you. 

This first one is from a long-time friend, the artist JAD. In addition to his amazing drawings, he's also a very accomplished writer, and I've expanded and modified one of his short stories into the tale below. I hope you all enjoy, and that you're all staying safe and sane out there. Crazy times we're living in! 



A Knight In the Dungeon

Based on an original story by JAD


Welcome, my young man! Welcome to the dungeon of Castle d’Atroce — or, more specifically, to the torture chamber. I am Karok, the Master of this place, and these are my most able assistants, Torg and Veelo. It will be our great pleasure to entertain you this evening! 

And you are…? Ah yes! Sir David! A knight errant, as I understand. And it would seem you erred a bit too much for Duke Abaddon’s taste. Caught the eye of his charming young niece, the Lady Lauren, did you? Too bad she is already promised to a much older, richer, and more powerful man, the Baron Graussam. And His Grace could not chance that you might interfere with this long-sought alliance.

Ah well, such are the ways of the world!

But I can well understand the Duke’s concern! How easy it would be for the lovely Lauren to be smitten with one such as you — young and tall, exquisitely handsome of face and astonishingly mighty of limb. Built like an ox, one might say. Why, I’m not sure if I’ve ever before SEEN a man with such a large frame and so densely packed with powerful muscles! Your massive chest alone would be legendary, but combined with such a narrow and chiseled waist, why, your battle-hardened body is simply a work of art! Add that thick head of wavy, dark brown hair, those soulful and expressive green eyes, and that devastatingly handsome face. Such manly beauty! Any maid would swoon! Why, even my knees feel a bit weak!

Eh, I see you grow unsteady yourself. It must be the heat. This chamber is always abnormally warm, one might even say hellish.

So let us make you more at ease by — hmmm — by removing some of your heavy clothing. After all, all that silk and velvet and leather must be stifling!

Oh, do not struggle so! It makes the task more difficult for Torg and Veelo. You may be powerful, well-trained, and combat hardened, but we have years of experience in dealing big, strong men — terrified men — desperate men. We know the right way to handle you!

Now see what has happened? All your finery has been ripped to tatters — down to the very last undergarment! Well, no place for those rags but the fireplace.

There! You should feel much more relaxed now. Oh, do not be embarrassed by your nakedness, young knight! There’s no call for modesty here. As you can see, we ourselves wear very little, the better to go about our work.

Now, let us take a better look at you.

Ah, what an exceptional male form! Those steel-muscled arms and oak-thewed thighs! That bullish neck and cannonball shoulders! Those colossal pecs and wide, densely muscled back! You are truly a feast for the eyes, Sir David! And that fine coating of dark brown fur covering your broad chest boulders and flat belly cobbles! So manly! So erotic! 

Alas, that pelt must go. Such hair retains body heat, and the smell of burning hair can be most unpleasant! Besides, you will feel so much more vulnerable — er, comfortable —when you’re shaven smooth as a newborn.

Not that you could even then be mistaken for a baby.

Not with such mature genitalia as you have here!

In my long and illustrious career of dealing with naked men, I cannot recall a member so virile, or a brace of testes teeming with such potency! Can you, lads? No, I thought not. I said earlier you were built like an ox, but you, my good knight, are most definitely a bull!

Did Lady Lauren ever see these? No, of course not. You are far too gallant! (My, how you blush!) What a singular adventure the Duke has cheated her of—or perhaps saved her from. I would wager that more maids run screaming from such monsters than hasten squealing to embrace them.

Oh, so I am not wrong? You have given and gotten little joy from your prodigious package? No need to speak. Your face says it all. But let me assure you, Sir David, that we shall experience extreme enjoyment tonight from your most excellent endowment. And perhaps even you will as well.

But enough prattle. It is time for Torg and Veelo to escort you to the preparation stocks!

And now that they have you locked in tight at neck and wrists, with feet chained wide, they remove the grate in the floor between your legs, and strap a large funnel gag in your mouth. They are force feeding you a strong purgative, which causes you to quickly — if unpleasantly — evacuate your bowels. (Such hearty howling!) And they follow up with a good flushing with the wet bellows. (Even more delightfully vigorous protests!)

You see, the scent of sweat, seed, and blood — even piss — add an agreeably robust aroma to the chamber. And afterwards, they are cleaned up with relative ease. But not so with shit. I will not have you or any visitor soiling my beloved atelier!


Once you are clean from gorge to bunghole, the grate goes back, and the lads set to work with their razors, shaving your mighty, muscular body hairless from neck to toe. My, your muscles look even more enormous shorn of their light dusting of hair! Really lets the magnificent cuts and striations of those remarkable muscles shine through! 

Then for good measure, they give you an invigorating massage with their strops. Notice how Torg focuses on your granite-globed buttocks, while Veelo likes to toy with your supremely low-hanging ostrich eggs! My, how those enormous stones bounce and wobble with each loving strike! And your full-throated bellows are like music to my ears!  

But your external treatment does not end there. The lads next don heavy leather gloves and rub you down all over with a special lotion — a notion of my own. I call it Satan’s Spit. Feels like liquid flame, does it not? And it gives you such a nice rosy glow!

That healthy pink cast will last a while, but the burning sensation abates quickly, as you see. However, your skin will remain intensely sensitized, so that any touch — light or heavy, pleasurable or painful — becomes highly erotic. See how much more susceptible to stimulation your big, fat-nubbed nipples are now?

Oh, one more thing before you leave the stocks — the funnel goes back in for a healthy dose of another of my concoctions. I named this one Pan’s Piss. It is guaranteed to make you horny as a satyr. To get you up and keep you up, come what may. To increase your seminal output phenomenally. And to lessen your recovery time to mere minutes. Yes, my virile cavalier, I can promise you that you will spew more seed tonight than you ever imagined possible!

Ah, lads, see how the Piss works its wonders on him already! That massive staff rearing up, those colossal stones bobbing below! My goodness, he is a true prodigy!! Bigger than any full-hard man when still soft, and at least half again that large when fully roused!! I have never seen its equal!! And his enormous orbs also seem to be swelling ever larger, hanging even lower! Excellent! 

Oh, and did I mention — the effects of the Pan’s Piss potion are permanent… 

Just watching you makes my own member quiver and start to rise. And I see your magnificent form and beyond-prodigious loins are having the same effect on my two helpful lads as well! So let us discard our constraining cod pouches, shall we?

Ah, much better — and as it should be!

Now come, Veelo, let us get our guest settled on Old Oakheart, while Torg attends to other important matters!

This ponderous butcher block has a most noble history, Sir David. A century back, he was hewn from the core of the mightiest tree in the old forest after it was toppled by lightning during the worst storm in memory. Since then, he has born thousands of men on his broad back, as they sweated and screamed, spewed seed and succumbed. You can see the stains and scratches, but not a hint of cracking there. And his master-crafted restraints can hold the biggest and strongest of prisoners — even the likes of you, my young titan — without fear of pulling free.

So down on your own brawny back you go, with wrists chained behind your head to one face of the cube, and ankles shackled to the sides. That spreads your legs wide, and your thighs are further anchored to the top with thick straps.

And did you notice this clever cut-out area down here? It allows full and easy access to your buttocks and bunghole! (Slap! Slap!)

Now let me see, where are those cock cuffs? Oh, here they are! But we shall certainly require the largest size. Ah! This should do! Hmmm — still a snug fit, but it closes and latches, if only just barely. This lets you come without hindrance — but reminds you that you are no longer in control of your member or its actions.

And now for the ball bond. Again the biggest, with a good strong chain. Latched tight! And we fling the chain over the hitch bar between these posts a yard beyond. Oh, we could use a winch for this next part, but I prefer to hang weights. That way I can gauge more accurately just how tough a man really is.

Let us start with twenty pounds, just to get you taut.

Hardly a grunt out of you! And your sack barely stretched! Let us add another twenty pounds.

That was a better — finally a groan! But still not much extension. These are most stalwart stones, Sir David!

One more.

A somewhat more satisfying moan that time. And a bit more give, but not much. Perhaps the lotion and potion are helping you relax? I do see there is a nice tension developing on your ponderous pole, pulling it forward. So we are starting to see results.

But do I dare? Why, of course! Another twenty!

And the first howl of the evening! But wait. Those bull balls of yours slipped an inch, but then bounced right back!! Your nut cords are truly heroic, my rugged rover! 

I have never before added a FIFTH weight to the ball stretcher — very few men can endure FOUR such weights with their bollocks still attached and intact. But you are clearly built of far more stern stuff than the average man! Still, I don’t know if I should risk your most magnificent of nuts by hazarding an additional weight on the chain. Then again, how can I not?! Torg, another twenty pounds, if you please! 

Ah yes, a full-throated bellow! Such powerful lungs you have, Sir David! And such a deep and resonant voice! We’ve wrenched another inch or so of stretch out of your valiantly straining nuts, my good man. Your mighty bollocks are starting to turn a bit purple with the strain, but they seem to be holding quite nicely. I’ve never before seen a man suspend a full one hundred pounds from his stones, but I have a strong suspicion that you could endure quite a bit more! Not to worry, we have all night, so we’ll revisit the nut stretcher in a little while… 

I am sure your formidable form holds many more fine surprises, and we are extremely eager to discover them, as you can see. (Please pardon my drooling on your chiseled and heaving belly!) So, without further ado, let us get down to business.

Torg has prepared a piping-hot pot of pokers and pincers — ah, thank you, Torg! — like this hefty one. And with them, we shall now ply your tender, defenseless flesh. Struggle and curse all you wish, it will avail you naught. Neither will pleas for mercy, for there is none in this chamber. The Duke desires to be rid of you. But before that, he wishes you to suffer hard and suffer long. You cannot win this fight, and there is no escape.

I am sure that as an honorable knight you will nobly accept your fate. But do not try to endure it stoically. Surrender yourself to the pain and the passion, and give unconstrained expression to them both. You will bear your harrowing burden with unforeseen grace. And you will experience ecstasy you never knew possible.

And now, Sir David — my powerful, potent paladin — I give you a choice. How do you wish to begin this? With the right pit, or the left?


(12 very long hours later)


Ah, Sir David, you have provided us with uncommon sport this night, for which Torg, Veelo, and I most gratefully thank you! (Bow, lads!)

You have squirmed, wriggled, flailed, struggled, thrashed, and writhed with such might that we thought at times you might be the first the break Old Oakheart’s restraints. And yet your will has not broken, and your enormously muscular body remains as outrageously strong and powerful as ever. 

You have grunted, groaned, moaned, screeched, howled, and roared with such power that we feared you might render yourself mute. And yet you are little more than hoarse.

Your big, bullish, brutish stones have borne a record-shattering two hundred pounds of weights — and, I dare say, could possibly carry even more! — as well as scores of burns and welts, and untold hundreds of punches, kicks, and blows from various blunt instruments. Yet they have continued to churn out load upon copious load of the thickest man cream I have ever seen, each monstrous load as bountiful and volcanic as the one before — and well more than a gallon in total, I would wager.

Your mighty phallus has been beaten with stanchions, seared with fiery brands, bent to the brink of snapping in half, and stretched until it was nearly pulled out by its tough fleshy roots. Yet your stallion staff has shrunk not a whit, nor flagged a second in its duty to deliver those fountainous servings of seed one after another — over two dozen altogether, although I admit I lost count. And all this while it has been sorely scorched up and down its massive, veiny shaft, all over its ultra-sensitive, fist-sized head, and even halfway down the finger-thick piss channel!

Your fat pouting paps have been squashed, stretched, twisted, and seared to oozing scabs. Your deep-hollowed pits are charred craters, your navel a fried button, your once virgin pink arse-pucker a swollen crimson hole.

Scarcely an inch of your mighty form does not bear the mark of our handiwork — even your brawny back is well-branded, for we wrestled you over and attended you there for well over two hours. Surely, your body is a mass of exquisite, excruciating agony, and you must be half-mad or more with the pain. 

And yet Pan’s Piss drives you on, fueling your lust — compelling you mindlessly onward to more suffering and passion, your great muscles gleaming with rivulets of sweat, hot tears streaming down your manly and extraordinarily handsome countenance. 

You are a wonder, my huge and handsome hero, and I sadly fear that I will never see your like again. 

But, alas, my friend, all things must come to an end. And that includes our revelries.

Duke Abaddon has demanded that evidence of your departure be presented to him when he next greets the day. And the sun has already risen. (You cannot tell here in this windowless chamber, but the great sandglass says it is so.) But since his Grace sleeps until noon, we still have plenty of time to give you a proper send-off.

It goes without saying that a knight of such exemplary qualities as yours deserves an equally magnificent courser to ride out upon. And so, let me present — the Steel Steed!

I see from your saucer-wide eyes how impressed you are by this majestic creature. As well you should be!

In full, fitting ceremony you shall be mounted upon this mighty beast. That is, it will be slowly and relentlessly shoved up your mangled man-bung until it is full in.

But how can you hope to survive such an ordeal, you ask? Trust me, my doughty young giant, I have full faith that you shall persevere. What is more, I believe that with the aid of the Piss, you will even find the experience exhilarating. In fact, you will probably produce several more studly spews of seed before the Steed is secure in its new stall.

However, that is not quite the end of it.

The coals that heated our tools tonight have burned down, but even as I speak Torg is stirring them back to life. Once the Steed is firmly wedged in your near-bursting bowels, we shall fill it with hot embers and secure the cap on its base.

And then, brave Sir David, bold Sir David, brawny Sir David, big balled and mighty membered Sir David — you shall make your final wild charge, bucking and bellowing into oblivion.

As the Steel Steed roasts you from within, perhaps it will even coax one last majestic eruption from your loins. If so, we shall endeavor to capture it and preserve it in a glass flask as a relic of your peerless and unparalleled virility.

And when you have gasped your last, we shall sever your astounding staff and stones and present them to the Duke. And he shall marvel over them as we have. And then gloat.

And then have them broiled for his breakfast.

Now, let us continue. 

Monday, November 23, 2020

The Rusty Talon -- original furry version

Hopefully with the author's indulgence, I'm posting the original version of The Rusty Talon here. Though I'm not 'into' furry/anthropomorphic stories, this one is so hot that I knew I HAD to do a human version! :) Enjoy! 


The Rusty Talon



I wrote this as part of a 'story swap' I was invited to participate in by a fellow ball-buster. It is a 'furry' story (the characters are anthropomorphized animals). If this isn't your scene, you may want to skip and come back Monday for the next regular update. 

The Rusty Talon was a dive of a boxing gym with obsolete equipment, dingy lighting, and perpetually broken bathroom plumbing. The cheap gym facade was a thin veneer to the club's true purpose, a place where masters placed nightly bets as their doms duked it out in the ring in brutal no-holds-barred throwdowns. Although small fortunes were won and lost in the betting pool, the real action happened Friday nights when Rex, a sly leisure-suit-wearing alligator who reeked of cheap cologne and booze, took bets for the even seedier clients of The Rusty Talon. 

The intrepid bookie was notorious for setting up bets where the losing sub - and even some former doms -  became the prizes to be won. Some masters had amassed a small army of burly, gym-toned beasts that they put into the ring knowing that, if they lost, he'd become someone else's property. After a particularly wild night of gambling and fighting, one especially ruthless master had won a wager with the ultimate prize...

Bruce practically reeked of hubris as he sauntered through The Rusty Talon well before the night's regular fights were scheduled to start. Bruce was a hulking figure even by bull standards, standing nearly seven feet tall and weighing at least five-hundred pounds, most of which was carried in his barrel-shaped, powerful torso. Per usual, he was only wearing a leather harness that seemed to strain to contain the bull's beefy pecs and a pair of white gym shorts that allowed his pendulous nuts to flop obviously against the fabric as he walked.

He was carrying a large flat-faced paddle clad in leather that got curious glances from the few gym-goers working out during the day. A handsome young tiger practically dove out of Bruce's path as the hulking bull strolled toward a door in the back of the gym like he owned the place. Today was the day Bruce was going to cash in on his winning bet.

Following close behind him was Rex, wearing a very cheap suit and grinning ear to ear, and Yule, a fellow bull who was significantly shorter than Bruce but whose lean body made his musculature much more obvious. Unlike Rex, Yule wasn't smiling.

"Bruce, buddy. We've known each other for years. Give my guys a break, will ya?" Yule said putting a hand on Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce snapped his thick, long tail in annoyance and turned to Yule huffing impatiently. He'd heard Yule's pleas nearly non-stop since he had won the bet and was growing tired of the cocky bull's insistent attitude. If it wasn't for the club's strictly-enforced honor system, he would have just head-butted him into silence and been done with it. Instead, the shiny surface of the enormous golden ring protruding from Bruce's snout fogged as he snorted in annoyance. 

"Deal's a deal, kid. Don't wager what you can't afford to lose," Rex sneered.

"I gotta' reputation to keep. No one's gonna' wanna' use a bookie who can't make guys honor their bets. You wouldn't want me to get nasty, would ya'?" 

Rex's cheesy facade collapsed as a wave of anger flashed over his face, he flexed the muscles that were usually obscured by his ill-fitting suits and snapped his snout at Yule, bearing his razor-sharp teeth. Just as quickly as it had started, the moment lapsed and Rex went back into leisure-suit mode. It was obvious Rex's ostensible meekness was a carefully played facade that he would not hesitate to break if the need arose and even this brief display was enough to silence Yule.

The three men walked into the back room and closed the door. The small room had a rank smell of sweat, dirty fur, piss, and blood.  In front of them was a bull, a minotaur, and a fox all tied against the wall with their arms bound behind their backs, legs spread and shackled to the floor and thick chains around their necks which were bolted to the stone wall. The rope stopped all but the slightest upper body movement and the leg shackles kept them locked firmly in place. All of them were naked and gagged with pleading expressions on their faces.

They were three of Yule's best fighters whom Bruce had won the weekend before. The wager came with a cruel provision that Bruce would return them after practicing his swing for an afternoon. Unfortunately for them, Bruce's sheer size and brute strength meant there was no telling what condition they'd be in when he finally gave them back to Yule. This was going to be a long afternoon. Of course, Bruce recognized all of them and smiled evilly as he reviewed his prizes. 

Jax, the bull, was an up and coming stud who drove heifers wild with his striking good looks and toned build.  He was relatively short but what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle and was lightning quick in the ring. His ring name was the Bird Bull for the almost flightly way he danced around the ring, striking his opponents ruthlessly while evading their attacks. But those skills were useless as he was tied helplessly in place, his grapefruit-sized, heavy testicles sagging between his stout legs.

Next was Lyndol. Lyndol was a gruff-looking minotaur who had been competing at The Rusty Talon for years before joining the elite ranks of Yule's harem. Even Bruce seemed small compared to the hulking minotaur. His size alone would have made the eight-foot-tall beast a force to be reckoned with, but when combined with his animalistic blood-lust and rippling physique made him a fighter with few peers. Although horns were technically not allowed to be used as weapons, it wasn't unusual for Lyndol to use his twin horns to toss opponents into the air where he would deliver devastating blows with his powerful fists in midair. Lyndol often left the ring with his thick fur matted with the blood - and occasionally the entrails - of his defeated opponents. In fact, his horns had taken on a semi-permanent rust color as a testament to his depraved brutality. 

Even now the angry beast was grunting through his gag and raging in a futile attempt to get free. All he succeeded in doing was working up a sweat and making his absolutely colossal nuts bounce and jiggle between his thick thighs. 

Last in line was Kyro a slim, toned fox who affectionately went by Goldilocks in the ring due to the thick coat of perfectly manicured, golden brown fur that covered his taught frame. Despite the playful moniker, a fight with Kyro was no fairytale for his opponents and the crafty fox was known to down opponents much larger than him.

Kyro was easily the youngest of the three but his cocky attitude and playboy antics had already made him notorious. There was none of that on display now however and the fur around the young fox's eyes was wet with tears as he desperately pleaded for mercy through his gag.  Bruce eyed the supple, modest-sized sack hanging disproportionately low between his legs and grinned as he took a step toward him.

"Bruce, man. Do I really have to watch?" Yule pleaded.

"That was the deal," Rex hissed, flashing his teeth.

Yule crossed his eyes and looked on helplessly with the indifference of a bull looking at three toys about to be smashed to pieces, not three men about to be brutally beaten.

Bruce was now standing snout to snout with the quivering Kyro. He could smell the fox's couture cologne that barely masked the musk of his fur and the smell of fear that seemed to physically radiate from him. Bruce inhaled deeply and laughed, his maniacal booming laugh echoing in the small room.

"I'm gonna' have so much fun with you, lil' pup,"

Bruce set down his paddle and balled his hands into two huge fists the site of which made Kyro wail into his gag. 


Yule shuddered and looked away as the giant bull's fist slammed Kyro's pecs, slamming into them over and over as he mercilessly tried to crush his rib cage.  Kyro screamed as Bruce continued slamming his fists so hard that they seemed to get buried in the fox's fur. After nearly a minute Bruce's aim started to get lower and lower with each blow until he was slamming Kyro's chiseled, furry abs. Yule was sure at least some of his best canid fighter's ribs had been broken and Bruce wasn't slowing down. Instead, his piston-like fists got lower, and lower until they were hovering over Kyro's sack.

Kyro heaved and cried out as Bruce reared his fist back, his bicep becoming a huge hairy mass of muscle, and then sent his fist sailing forward.

Kyro dry heaved all over Bruce's horns as the bull's fist collided with his nutsack and was slammed against the wall. The fox's balls, though large, were the smallest of the bunch so fit perfectly until Bruce's fist which was slamming them into the stone wall like a jackhammer.  

Sickening, wet crunching echoed through the room as Bruce laid waste to Kyro's junk.

"Mmmph! Mmmph!" 

Kyro was in hysterics as Bruce slammed his fist faster and faster, his knuckles swelling from the abuse until he felt a slight popping sensation under his fist. He drew back his hand to reveal Kyro's furry nuts had puffed up and turned an angry shade of purple. Bruce roughly cupped them in his hands and squeezed, delighted that nothing felt broken.

Bruce picked up his paddle and rubbed his hand over the surface as if polishing a rare jewel.

Yule rolled his eyes and snarled but was silenced by a flash of Rex's teeth. He knew his plans to breed another generation of fox cubs were about to be crushed and there wasn't anything he could do without being torn to shreds by Rex, assuming of course Bruce didn't finish the job first.

Bruce placed the wide paddle under Kyro's fuzzy sack and lightly batted them up and down like a paddle ball. Kyro screamed as the intensity increased, filling the room with wet slapping sounds. His young nuts were bouncing harder and harder, flattening against the surface of the paddle to Bruce's delight.

"I think I'm going to practice my backhand," 

Bruce threw the paddle into the air with a twirl and caught it with the opposite hand.  His tail snapped as he drew back his arm for the swing. Kyro's eyes turned into saucers as he became fixated on the truly enormous bulk of Bruce's body, especially the arm holding the paddle. This was going to be one hell of a blow...



Kyro passed out.


Yule looked away as the paddle collided with Kyro's sack which flattened against its surface, becoming flatter and flatter as the membranes collapsed into nothing. Bruce could feel the resistance - and shape - of Kyro's balls disappearing under the terminal blow and when he withdrew the bat his suspicions were confirmed. His swollen sack, though bloated, lacked the clearly defined lumps the young fox had started with. Instead, his scrotum was full of prime stud nut chunks floating around freely, freed of the pesty confines of an intact tunica vaginalis.

Satisfied that his work with Kyro was done, Bruce turned and nodded to Rex who pounded the entry door three times. Two aging bears who worked as The Rusty Talon's security entered and quickly got to work untying the blacked-out fox from the wall, carrying him out gently.

"Clean 'em up. I want him back in the ring by next week," Yule shouted after them.

"You know, you're a real piece of work, Bruce. A real son of a bitch. Do you know how many chicks I bagged with him as my wingman? He was like honey to my trap, cute lil' pup."

The bears had barely left the room, closing the door behind them, when Bruce strolled over to Jax. The younger bull looked like a newborn calf compared to Bruce's towering build and his legs were shaking as he desperately tried to close them. Bruce could barely cup the huge, round things in a single palm as he took a moment to admire their heft. As he cradled them, Bruce couldn't help but admire the handsome young bull's physique. Jax was easily the most attractive bull Bruce had ever seen in his life. He had seen models in magazines that didn't have the strikingly good looks of this young bull and he had a body to match. Countless hours at the gym and a strict diet had rendered him virtually devoid of extra fat. An anatomy professor could have used him as a prop, so carved was every muscle in his body and his thick brown coat was always neatly trimmed. A very skilled barber had cut a tribal-looking design into the fur on his chest that spiraled outward culminating at what would have ordinarily been the waistline of his boxing shorts.

Bruce took several steps back, lowered his head, and charged directly at Jax at speed.


Yule grimaced sympathetically as Bruce's large head smashed into Jax's handsome face, instantly shattering it. Blood spilled from his broken snout and one of his eyes almost instantly swelled shut. Jax whimpered as Bruce looked at his handiwork. 

"Not so pretty now, are you?" he sneered.

He proceeded to grip the paddle with both hands and pull back so far his torso rotated before sending the bat smashing into Jax's balls.

"I want to see if I can break a steer-making record!" 


Jax's huge, firm nuts seemed to barely deform as they collided over and over with the broad face of the paddle. 

Rex and Yule looked on as the hulking bull put every ounce of his strength into destroying Jax's chances at siring a calf. Although he wished he could just pass out, panic and pain kept Jax firmly planted in reality so he was able to fully experience every testicle-bursting hit. After whacking with a two-handed grip, Bruce decided to practice his forehand grip. The smaller bull wailed at the site of Bruce's massive arm drawn back before there was a loud whoosh and the paddle smashed full force into Jax's sack.

Jax's balls were big, heavy, and swollen and Bruce wasn't giving them any time to recover between blows. The stud's sack bounced madly with each blow as Bruce alternate hands and grip styles to see which was the most effective in rendering a scream from the about to be neutered boxer.


Jax shook his head pleading with Bruce to stop his non-stop assault but it was no use.


Jax's right nut cracked wide open in his sack.

Bruce stopped swinging and for a moment Rex was about to pound the door to get the bear security guards back in to clean up the mess, but the pause was brief.

Bruce snorted and waved his tail wildly as he again gripped the bat with both hands and swung over and over into Jax's half-busted spuds. Hundreds of pounds of force came with each rapid-fire blow and Yule rolled his eyes and waited for the inevitable.


Jax's last whole nut was annihilated. Bruce, never one to leave a job half-finished, took the shattered orbs - one in each of his massive hands - and squeezed. Gross, wet crunching and splishing sounds emanated from the bull's rapidly closing fists until, with a final crunching, only a few large, disconnected chunks were floating the newly-created steer's sack.

Bruce turned to Rex and nodded and Rex again pounded on the door. The two bears waddled in, untied Jax from his constraints, and carried him out. Yule shook his head as he saw another of his prize fighters being carried out utterly broken.

The door slammed behind them and Bruce sauntered in front of Lyndol. The giant minotaur struggled against the ropes, more in rage than any attempt to escape and his black eyes glared menacingly at Bruce. As an alpha bull, Bruce was almost always the largest person in any room, but even his hefty build was utter dwarfed by the minotaur. Lyndol's thick legs and head were thick in a tangled mess of nearly jet-black fur and his monstrously large horns easily added another foot to his overall height. In stark contrast to the rest of his body, his huge torso was neatly shaved almost bald allowing for his corrugated muscles to glisten with sweat. Lyndol's chest - like the rest of his body - was broad and muscular and the rippling abdominal muscles were so rock-hard and well-sculpted that they looked like a piece of armor had been bolted to his body. And swinging between his thick thighs were two enormous spuds the size of small melons which would have been comically huge on any other breast but seemed proportionate to Lyndol's towering size.

Yule impatiently checked his watch.

"Bruce, just get it over with would ya'?"

Bruce's tale lazily swayed back and forth as he grasped the paddle with both hands. He started batting Lyndol's nuts gently at first but with increasing ferocity switching up his technique enjoying how different angles and grips caused the minotaur's equipment to violently bobble about in various ways.

Lyndol's nuts were as strong as they were large and Bruce quickly realized all his blows were doing was making the raging stud more angry, the pain barely registering. After a few minutes, though they were starting to turn rosy red under the thick coating of fur that covered them Lyndol's balls were hardly scathed. Undeterred, Bruce grasped the paddle firmly with both hands, lined up the shot, and swung the paddle like a bat as hard as he could. It connected in the middle of Lyndol's sack with a hard twack that was still resonating off the walls before it was followed by another, and another and another. Bruce's arms were becoming sore from the viscous force he was exerting and for the first time, the minotaur howled in genuine pain.

As Lyndol struggled, Bruce was determined to crack the huge ball bag open like a pinata and was now laying into it. The room was filled with Lyndol's gagged screams, Bruce grunting in effort, the loud 'whoosh' of the paddle sailing through the air and the loud, hard smack of the paddle slamming into the beast's nuts.

Bruce's fur was becoming damp with sweat as he poured every ounce of his strength into ruining the arrogant minotaur. Lyndol screamed and for the first time attempted to beg through his gag even though he knew it was hopeless.

The bull stepped away reared back his leg and sent it slamming into Lyndol's nuts. The screaming organs rocketed upward and hadn't even finished bouncing before Bruce slammed his massive foot into them. Lyndol gagged and screamed as Bruce spent the next ten minutes mercilessly pulping his nuts with his field goal kicks. He then grabbed Lyndol's giant right nugget, sandwiched it in his thick palms and compressed his hands together as hard as he could. Lyndol's eyes opened wide as his ball was compressed into a dense mound of ball meat, valiantly resisting any further deformation.

"Poor little minotaur,"

Bruce sneered as he looked up at the captive in front of him. Tears streaked down Lyndol's face as Bruce's bull hands compressed tighter... and tighter..


Yule and Rex turned away shuddering at the extremely loud, disturbing crunch of Lyndol's nut bursting in Bruce's hands. Bruce smiled as he felt the ball explode in the sack and he stepped pack, grabbed his paddle and started slamming it into Lyndol's swinging fury sack.  Lyndol faded in and out of consciousness and barely stirred when his last nut split open like a ripe antelope, his massive bag now full of nothing but two enormous, shattered orbs. But Bruce didn't stop.




The massive chunks of testicle remanents were being annihilated by the bull and the bag bounced and jiggled as Bruce slammed it so hard it was being ping-ponged between the paddle and the wall as it swung like a fleshy pendulum. Bruce snorted, his tail whipped wildly and he reared back screaming in conquest as he sent the paddle slamming with devastating force for a continuous five minutes. There was absolutely nothing left in Lyndol's sack at this point but mush and small welts and tears appeared along his scrotum's shredded surface. Patches of fur were matted into the surface of the paddle.

"Almost done," Bruce said looking up at the pleading minotaur.

Bruce lined up the paddle and took several large steps backward, his tail sweeping the ground behind him like a path.  Yule's eyes grew huge as he realized what Bruce was about to do.

With a growl, Bruce charged the minotaur and just before making contact swung the bat, combing the inertia of his hulking frame moving at speed with the force of his paddle. The results were catastrophic for Lyndol.


Lyndol's goop filled sack exploded open spraying Bruce, the paddle and the wall with a shower of liquified, chunky mess. Streaks and chunks landed all over Lyndol's abs and the horrified minotaur passed out with his eyes half-open, a look of absolute horror and shock etched across his face.

Rex pounded the door and the two bears entered, stopped by the stunning sight. One of them called for a third, who called for a fourth who quickly untied Lyndol, started crudely treating his shredded scrotum, and the group struggled to carry out the enormous beast. The ground that had been under the minotaur and the wall were an absolute mess and shapeless testicle gunk had formed a pile several inches high on the ground.  Bruce rose his foot over it, turned to Yule, and smiled.


The bull's shins were coated with the former reproductive organs of the studly minotaur. Bruce looked down at his trusty, gore covered paddle and smiled.