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Friday, April 8, 2016

Deadwood - The Unmanning of Angus Johansen - Part 2

Deadwood - The Unmanning of Angus Johansen - Part 2
Original story by TripWire (called “Deadwood”)


In Deadwood, Miss Graham’s thick-dicked boxer sampled the hard work of mining, the easy work of seducing women, and the pleasures of saloons, especially the Eights and Aces, Deadwood’s showpiece establishment for drinking, dining, gambling, and whoring. Angus takes up residence there and strikes up a tender but by no means exclusive romance with the saloon’s top girl. 

Chloe is a petite teenager who’s only been at the Eights for 10 months. Her father, an Italian-born acrobat, had dragged their family troupe away from a traveling circus after a dispute with its owner and manager. They were almost beggars when they arrived in Deadwood to pan for gold, a skill at which they failed to excel. After two weeks of near-starvation, slim and lithe little Chloe was presented to Samson in exchange for a stake large enough to get the rest of the family back to the circus. Chloe’s mother, dark-haired and doe-eyed like her daughter, attempted to murder her husband with a knife after he sold the girl to the saloon owner. But the acrobats departed all the same, the father clutching his ribs as he snapped the reins over the backs of his team of two sway-backed horses. 

Angus finds her beautiful and pays Samson a handsome sum to have her whenever he wants, which is often but not always. The boxer’s legendary libido needs variety. 

Word of Angus Johansen’s arrival spreads through the mining camp over a night and a morning. Chicago and Kansas City newspapers carry stories of his in-the-ring exploits, and a few well-fucked whores carry tales of his genital giantism downstairs to the bar and thence to rest of populace. Within a few days, a sort of celebrity fever grips the frontier community. Women of all walks of life make their way to the Eights to see the mighty stud who, before long, is pumping the sluttier females unabashedly among the back tables of the saloon. The more interested patrons watch the cocksman at work. The throng grows when a particularly pretty or “respectable” female raises her skirts. 

Chloe’s breathtaking figure, comely face, and contortionist skills make her a crowd favorite when she mounts the enormous cock of the powerful fighter. She is fucked most often after performing a striptease on the Eights’ stage where she does back flips and handstands atop a small teeter-totter. Samson built it for her when she told him a similar device had been the central prop for her circus act, which she had performed clothed. Learning to shed her clothes while balanced on the teeter-totter had been difficult, but the miners’ appreciation had been worth its weight in gold. 

The packed crowds in the Eights’ since Angus’ arrival forced Samson to hire extra men for crowd control. Even church-goers flocked to see Johansen, but mostly to see his boxing exhibitions rather than his sexual displays. Still, the Rev. James Olsen notices absent pews in his church at Wednesday Bible study and rants about the shame of it on Sunday. 

He is the scourge of Deadwood’s whores, having beaten several. Chloe’s nimble feet have helped her escape him twice. She hates him. Samson cannot take revenge on a preacher. The backlash would be too great, even in wild Deadwood. 

The reverend’s twin daughters are typical preacher’s daughters — prim on Sunday, promiscuous every other day of the week. They manage to keep up a proper front for the righteous fraction of Deadwood’s populace, but they are known girls among the rest of the community. 

One evening after Bible study, they become known to Angus Johansen, and they become his downfall. 


A few hours after the prolonged ravishing of the Olsen twins, Angus lolls in a chair at his favorite table in the center of the Eights’ main room. A blue, white-trimmed warm up robe, hood thrown back, covers his nakedness. The greedy appetite for sex has been sated, but the prize fighter isn’t ready to call it a night. He’s still bragging about making the two teens beg for mercy — and then beg for more. 

The story may be wearing a bit thin on the panners and hard rock miners who drink with the celebrity. Normally, Angus would recognize the signs and switch to a different topic, but they had been so perfect, those two girls, so smooth, so soft, so ready to discover the joys of getting fucked by his magnificent penis. 

The fighter also fails to mark the number of patrons who have left Samson’s establishment slowly in twos and threes. Something’s brewing beyond the Eights’ walls. Johansen doesn’t guess, the way Samson has, but he does hear the hubbub in the street as the saloon’s clock chimes midnight. 

A slender man in a black, broad brimmed hat crashes through the door followed by a knot of men recently cuckolded by Angus Johansen. Disappeared customers of the Eights and Aces pour in behind them. The man in the black hat by his features can only be the father of the twins, the oft-mentioned Right Reverend Olsen. 

The reverend points, oh so dramatically, with a twisted dark wood cane. Angus knows what he will say within a word or two, something like... 

“Take him!” 

The boxer’s chair flies backward. He’s on his feet before it hits the floor. One of his fellow midnight drinkers extends a startled hand toward the champ. It’s an innocent gesture, but Angus doesn’t take it as such. He cracks the man’s ear with his fist, and the miners who might have been allies turn on the famous tourist. He spins quickly, but a dozen stone-faced men are filing in from the rear entrance to block his exit. 

The boxer begins to pummel the tough populace of Deadwood while he looks for escape. A fifth man goes down before Angus realizes he won’t get free. With so many heads broken, he’s used up a good portion of sympathy already, but charm is the only chance he has left. He throws up his hands and smiles his devilishly handsome smile. 

“Ho there, friends! Shouldn’t there be someone watchin’ the gate for this exhibition match? We’re already through the first round, and I don’t even know who I’m fighting or why or how I’m getting paid. Samson, you need to start taking up a collection.” 

“It’s you who’s going to pay, devil spawn,” the Reverend says. “You’re going to pay with that!” 

The dramatic pointing has resumed. This time the preacher is indicating the famous Johansen johnson, which in the melee has shaken through the opening of the loosely belted robe. Even flaccid, the swinging pink male part dangles impossibly far below Angus’ groin. 

“Look upon it citizens of Deadwood, high and low. God would not have cursed any man with such an abomination. Such an unlikely measure of manhood is not needed for his purposes. This is the Devil’s work. I say there’s a demon between this creature’s legs, and the only reason it’s here is to corrupt our women! We must cut it off and cast it out.” 

The small circle created by Angus’ fists collapses on him. No blows fall on the champ, but the arms that wrap him allow none in return. He is borne to the floor, a technical knock out. 

A skinner’s knife rips through the warm up robe, and the tatters are yanked from the attractive cocksman. Men kneel on his massive legs, huge arms, and powerful chest. A broad gap is left for the “demon” organs, rolling huge and unrestrained over his belly, thighs, and groin during the struggle. 

“Boys, you don’t know what you’re doin’ here,” Angus shouts. “You don’t really believe ol’ black hat’s mumbo jumbo, do you? Never heard such nonsense. Never known good men to cut off a fella’s parts just ’cause he pleasured a couple of women. You all saw, they didn’t bleed, you know they weren’t virgins. And they came to me! I pushed ‘em away. Frankie, you laughed at the way they came after me.” 

The twisted black stick whirs out of the press, causing a few men to jerk their heads back. It slams between the huge, jiggling gonads and punishes the root of the Angus-snake. The Rev. Olsen’s cane puts paid to Angus’ appeal, which had given some men pause as they recalled the night’s events more clearly. Angus tries to double up from the pain even as his massive balls caroom off the walls of their sac. The weight on his limbs won’t allow it. A strangled cry comes from his throat, and for a moment, he seems ready to puke. Thankfully, the nausea subsides. He just pants and groans. 

The boxer is hauled to his feet, the fight gone out of him. The drooping dong and slack scrotum are red but not bruised. The preacher did not strike with his full power. 

Samson nods to the Bible thumper. They have a deal. The saloon keeper will allow Olsen to take his revenge as long as the dismembered masculinity is delivered to him in a state suitable for profitable display. 

The saloon keeper’s macabre scheme for exhibiting Johansen’s freakish genitalia stemmed from a meeting with a traveling Cajun fellow who lived well showing a small menagerie of glass-encased human abnormalities. Exotic animals, stuffed and mounted in attitudes of fierceness supplemented the more grotesque attractions. The champion cock wouldn’t be a menagerie by itself, but it and the mighty balls would surely earn a little extra coin for the Eights. 

Samson is already composing the telegram to Chicago where a strange little man at a medical supply company will build almost anything to show off almost anything. The Eights will turn a pretty penny from the sideshow attraction Samson will have made from the champion’s pride and joy juice makers. 

Clem and Calhoun, the two bartenders, roll an enormous wooden barrel from a back room onto the main parlor’s stage. It’s nearly a third full of the cheapest beer the Eights sells. The brand is appropriately called Big Barrel beer. Stood upright, the oaken cask is a foot taller than a heavyweight prize fighter. 

A fifty-ish Sioux Indian in buckskin shirt and cavalry breeches pads quietly into the parlor after the barrel, two long coils of leather rope in his hands. He’s another part of the deal. Samson has known Kwenimo for years. They were road agents together back in the days before Samson decided to stop riding the outlaw trail. Besides being traitor to his people, Kwenimo has been called medicine man and witch. He’ll carve the pugilist proper. 

The ropes go around the wrists and ankles of Boston’s best hung stud. They’re cinched tight behind the barrel. Its bow and curve hold his limbs back and thrust his groin out for the best exposure to the crowd and easiest access to the knife. 

Still stunned by the powerful impact to his sensitive organs, Angus mumbles incoherent arguments to the crowd of men, but the mob mentality is taking hold. It will be nigh impossible to turn a majority back to reason. Angus’ bragging, his outsider status in Deadwood, and the natural envy of less endowed men weigh against him. He grimaces as the ropes spread eagle his beautifully muscled frame. Joints pop. 

The Reverend wants to whip the crowd into a frenzy for the unspeakable acts that are about to take place, but Samson would rather they drink and fondle his whores while the pretense of justice plays out. His exhortations are more familiar to his patrons than the preacher’s. Money, pussy, and booze flow. Blood will soon follow. 

The whores have come out of their rooms to see what the excitement’s about. Bright, sweet Chloe, who invested so much hope in Angus and lavished so much attention on his too public privates, is the last to emerge, having been pinned under the ample weight of Hank Marston, a hardware store owner who can pay the premium price demanded for the young girl’s perfect body. She gasps when she sees the boxer’s nude form lashed to the barrel. Her clit tingles as it always does when she’s presented with the sight of his fantastic phallus and tremendous testicles. 

The green silk robe she wears billows as she hurries down the stairs. Eight inches apiece of sculpted white thigh flash above her black stockings. She finds her pimp and locks onto his big arm. 

“Samson! What are they doing to Angus?” She knows the answer. Instinct explains there can be only one reason to stretch a man out like that, especially a man who hangs like Johansen. 

Samson just looks at her. He knows she knows. 

“But why? Who? And why aren’t you stopping them? He brings good business to the Eights!” 

“Don’t make a fuss, girl. He’s going to keep bringin’ in business. ’Sides, this had to happen sooner or later. If it wasn’t the Reverend getting his pride back for Angus turning the twins into sluts, it’d be some other fella the boxer shamed. Surprised he’s kept his ‘heavyweights’ this long. Ain’t you?” 

“Samson! No! I’ve never heard of this bein’ done to anybody ’cept some Sioux got caught out alone and drug into camp. Angus is a white man. And that Kwenimo, what’s he doing? Isn’t he your friend?” 

The Indian has rolled out a small trade blanket and begun unpacking a woven basket as if for a picnic. Sharp tools are nested with clay jars of unguents and powders. Needles and wire are partnered with candles and feathers. The centerpiece is a large, clear bowl filled with something like water, but Chloe’s nose tells her that’s not what it is. 

Angus gazes on the preparations stupidly. Maybe one of those miners did get in a stunning punch when they took him down. Kwenimo isn’t waiting for the fighter to figure it out. While the crowd drags chairs closer to the stage, the old Sioux pours a yellow powder into a goblet of milky fluid. He shakes it vigorously with his hand over the open neck, then carries it to the woozy boxer. 

Pressing it to Angus’ lips only earns him curses. Clem slaps a beefy hand to the condemned man’s forehead, pinning his skull to the barrel staves. Kwenimo forces the powerful jaw open and pours the liquid into Angus’ mouth. The champ sputters and chokes but eventually swallows a good amount of the mixture. 

From the front of the Eights a murmur begins. The crowd swirls around a small group of blonde heads. The Reverend has sent his eldest son to bring his daughters so they can witness the elimination of their lover’s manhood. Never a stable apostle of the Lord, old Olsen went half mad when his son told him the depraved fashion in which his beautiful twins gave up their virtue. The camp will speak of them as sluts unless the sordid event can be cast in a new light. A bold-faced lie will be erected in place of Angus’ ever ready bone. 

Despite the truth, despite dozens of witnesses to the contrary, Deadwood will come to accept as Gospel that the Olsen twins were raped. 

Properly clothed once more, the twins take their seats in the front row of rough saloon chairs not 10 feet from the spot where the fighter had them squealing with pleasure but a few hours ago. When they sit, the boxer’s drooping penis begins to rise as if on cue. 

A wave of laughter, much to the girls’ embarrassment, rolls around the Eights’ until papa Olsen’s cane smacks the floor. The crowd quiets but not too readily. This is, after all, Deadwood, where there are more saloons than churches, more brothels than schools. The crowd is a curious mix of Olsen’s true believers, jealous husbands, whores, and a majority of the just plain curious. 

The laughter ended, the twins’ eyes attach to Angus’ growing hard on. They’ve seen it before, but the process is no less fascinating a second time around. For those who are first-time viewers, the reaction is, as always, disbelief. 

From completely soft and shrunken at 10 and a half inches, the mammoth trunk stretches lower, still limp looking, to 12 inches. The shaft thickens, the glans swells, and at 14 inches the bloating meat begins to lift away from the support of the cradling balls, although the head still points at the floor. At 16 long inches, the phallus straightens to aim at Kwenimo’s ankles a few feet away. For 17, it rises parallel with the floor. Passing 18 inches, the trademark shallow curve locks into place. Nineteen hardwood inches reach full erection at 45 degrees above the horizontal, an amazing show of strength for a cock so incredibly long, thick, and heavy. 

Surely no penis so large has ever existed in all of recorded history! There’s not a scholar among them, but the Deadwooders knows it’s true without anyone making the claim. 

“Oh, yummy! Blood sausage!” a whore calls out. “Make it stay like that, Kwen, when you cut him. I’ll keep it for a dildo.” Rough laughter. 

Enough men amongst the audience have used the medicine man’s potion to correct the amusing assumption that the twins are responsible for rousing Johansen. Maybe standing in cold creeks all day makes impotence an occupational hazard among the panners for gold. The problem is not uncommon, it seems. Deadwood is indeed an odd place. 

The draught of whatever it was that Kwenimo poured down poor Johansen’s throat has the boxer throbbing hard. The enormous ripe plum head of his organ jerks emphatically with each beat of his terrified heart. Angus himself feels the penis straining to burst its incredible limits. He’s never been so stiff. He suspects the thundering erection was caused by the drink, but he doesn’t understand why, if he’s going to be mutilated, his detractors are going to so much trouble. 

Silence now settles over the onlookers. The torturer — that’s what he is, everyone realizes — approaches his victim. 

Kwenimo’s knife is small and gleaming. He holds it in just two fingers and a thumb as Angus alternately threatens Tammany Hall’s wrath and pleads for mercy. The men of the camp are used to such protestations, having seen hangings and shootings on a regular basis in the Badlands. They fix their attention on the Sioux’s steel and Johansen’s wood rather than his words. A few of the whores are hard-eyed too, but softer expressions show on a few faces. Surprisingly, the twins are anxious, maybe horrified at what’s about to happen. 

“Just stop old fella, OK?” he whispers to Kwenimo. 

For answer, the Indian smiles and lays the knife edge against Angus’ scrotum just below his pulsing pud. He flattens the wrinkled skin and draws the blade in a quick motion. His victim screams when a two-inch section of bag droops under the gaping cut. Kwenimo holds the massive pouch to one side and cuts again. Again the bag sags. Angus continues yelling, pain and fright etched into his handsome features. Someone stuffs a barely adequate gag into his mouth. The noise is muffled but uninterrupted. 

The big nutsack, now bleeding freely, is hauled up and forward against the penis so the Indian can slice at the back, surely, smoothly. The knife is cutting cleanly through the skin and membranes cradling the huge cojones. One of the two spermatic cords becomes visible to much of the crowd. The dark, bloody maw grows until one final cut joins the circle of severed flesh. Last to be severed is the membrane that halves the sac, dividing the testicles. The scrotum has been sliced through. By design, the gonads are still connected and whole. 

The bag won’t come off without help, however. A little tug on the scrotum opens a one-inch gap. The nut cords stand out in the lamplight. Angus’ eyes are wide and disbelieving above the gag. Don’t they know who he is? Don’t they know how he’s worshipped for his prowess in the ring and for the record measure of his cock and balls? How can they do this to him?! 

His chest is heaving. Kwenimo meets his stare, puts down the knife and pinches the skin of the scrotum below each testicle. He drags the sac slowly downward, meeting resistance at first as the cords tighten and lengthen. When the tops of the giant balls come into view, the sack slides more easily. As the bluish-white orbs are half exposed, the bag drools off by itself and flops, open end downward, to hang from the Indian’s fingers. Blood drips. 

Angus feels open air on his balls for the first time in his life. The nude sperm makers bump, moved minutely with each beat of blood maintaining the hard-on above. The cords that hold them to their erstwhile owner stretch down nearly six inches when Kwenimo gives the testicles an absent-minded pull. They spring up again once released. Heavy hangers indeed. The running commentary of the saloon patrons compares them to melons, which are too big, to oranges, which are too small, and to overlarge grapefruit, which are just right. 

One whore is rubbing her slit through her bloomers. Another pushes her kitty hard against the fist of a bullwhacker who visits her every two weeks on the turnaround from Rapid City. A chair leg scrapes the wooden floor loudly when a storekeeper scoots for a better view of the emasculation. The men beside him glare at the breach of etiquette. Distractions are not well tolerated during Badlands entertainment. 

A greasy concoction is smeared on Angus’ circular wound. The blood stops. The empty scrotum is submerged in Kwenimo’s big glass bowl. He fills the bag several times with the liquid and empties it until the contents pour out clear. Each time it is filled, the elastic pouch distends to such dimensions that the crowd oohs and ahhs. It might hold a dozen of Johansen’s mammoth fruit if its two chambers were ever packed tight. Expanded to its thinnest measure, the liquid loaded scrotum glows orange when a lamp is placed behind it. The tracery of veins it displays is ghastly. 

The Sioux scoops Angus’ bag full once more for the onlookers to marvel at, then lets it float. The eyes of the man who will soon be castrated cycle rapidly from the floating nut pouch to his raw balls and back again. Lashly looks on, clearly sympathetic, as the tortured man’s tortured mind wrestles with the concept of being slowly gelded. 

Something new has caught his tormentor’s attention. Kwenimo bends closer to the scrotal wound, parts the bobbling nuts with his hand and probes tentatively at the groin. His calloused digits wiggle briefly then thrusts upward into the raw flesh near the back of the cut. The boxer whips his skull forward and back. The rooting around can’t be pleasant, but that’s just what Kwenimo is seeking — the root of the “demonic” prick. He shows the crowd a gap-toothed smile when he seizes it, although few understand what he’s latched onto — until the Indian pulls downward, levering the mighty cock as on a fulcrum to smack against the broad chest. 

“Ahhhhhh,” the crowd says in one voice. 

For fun, Kwenimo works the root like the handle of a wagon jack, slapping Angus’ torso several times with the boxer’s own rigid meat. The enormous penis appears to wave itself about like an animated sword. The stripped testicles bounce off the Sioux’s agitating fist and his victim’s thighs. 

The more debased among the watchers whistle and stomp at the trick, oblivious to the agony it causes the helpless stud. The world’s most celebrated male organ doesn’t return to its former upward angle after this humiliation. The tight ligaments and strong muscles holding it up have been loosened. Still, it lances higher than horizontal. Johansen’s pride has a long way to go before it can be counted destroyed. Its tumescence hasn’t slackened. 

The Indian picks up his knife and smiles once more at the boxer whose huge muscles are bulging on par with his outsized penis. Angus shakes his head wildly as the blade lights on the underside of the twitching manhood. A very shallow cut circles the shaft two-thirds of the way down from the shooting end. Four inches closer to the thick base, the knife encompasses the manflesh again. A lengthwise cut slides along the line of the urethra without damaging the big cum carrying vessel. It links the two circular incisions. Angus and his audience now conceive what the Sioux is about to do to the four-inch section of penis. 

Kwenimo loosens the skin with the tip of the knife on one side of the piss tube. When he can grasp it with his gnarled old fingers, he peels the near translucent layer of cock hide slowly higher, stopping at the halfway point to adjust his grip. Even some of the hardened miners are sickened by this. Angus screams through the gag nearly as loudly as before. When the rectangle of skin is torn free, it too floats in the bowl. 

“Nuthin’ less than what the horn of the Devil deserves for what he done, an’ you all know it,” the Rev. Olsen says to the faint of heart. “Some of you are lucky you ain’t up there with him for standing by while he took his liberties with my girls. This is their due.” 

Nods of agreement are sparse but no one argues against the reverend’s barbaric method of extracting “justice” for his wanton twins. 

More layers of skin and tissue are removed carefully from the 4-inch section and dropped into the bowl until finally the urethra and the two thick cylinders of the corpora cavernosa are boldly on display. Amazingly, the surface network of veins and arteries remains intact. Kwenimo has skillfully assured that the gargantuan tool will not fall from its turgid state. What new blood has flowed is again stopped with the grease. The partially dissected penis continues to pulse and twitch as though it hasn’t been mutilated. 

A few words in Sioux pass from Kwenimo to Samson, who motions little Chloe forward. The pretty young whore is ordered to strip. Samson cuffs her when she hesitates. She disrobes quickly then. Her taut nipples cause comment among the crowd and prompt a few catcalls. For the most part, the room is silent. The girl is shoved toward Kwenimo, who grabs her by the wrist and makes her kneel in front of the abused boxer. Her fear is plain. 

Chloe’s unresisting hand is guided toward the flayed section of the awesome dick. She closes her eyes as the Indian inserts her index finger behind the urethra and hooks it around the tube. The thick white vessel bows in her grip as Kwenimo draws her finger up and down, freeing the four inches of unprotected piss pipe from its tenuous connection to the cavernosa. At the extreme end of the tube, the glans seems to nod, its opening yanked inward by the pulling. Chloe sobs, nipples jutting incongruously. The violence done to the supremely beautiful organs of her lover both horrifies and excites her. 

Samson feigns calm despite his worry over damage to the trophy pole. This is all part of the plan. 

The saloonkeeper saw the writing on the wall when the boxer’s spit-polished knob still oozed semen from the final load called forth by the Olsen twins. He knew the mad Reverend would never let this affront stand. The pugilist playboy would be castrated at the least. At worst for the fighter, at best for Samson, the whole package would be removed. For Samson to profit from the parson’s revenge, a full neutering had to be assured. 

He had dispatched Clem to find Kwenimo. In Samson’s tiny office, the Indian had promised that his knife would provide a lengthy entertainment without harming the massive genitals beyond the repairs a good taxidermist could affect. The old Sioux was a skilled hand at taxidermy himself, he noted. Samson had smiled an evil outlaw smile. 

An exchange of words between saloonkeeper and Indian are translated to trembling Chloe. She shakes her head and is struck again. Obligingly, she opens her eyes, seizes the undamaged section of penis in one hand, and with the other pushes two slim fingers between the hard, tightly joined cavernosa where their fragile covering has been ripped away. She wiggles the tips as they appear on the dorsal side. The naked balls jiggle with the vibrations. Angus’ face has turned the same shade of purple as his cockhead from the agony of the live dissection and the psychological impact of seeing his proud pole skinned and split. 

For sure though, it’s a crowd pleaser. The fact that the organ is remaining bone hard and throbbing throughout amazes everyone except Kwenimo, who knows the power of his potion. The fact that a penis is not one inflatable tube but two side by side (actually three if you count the erectile tissue around the urethra that doesn’t become as intensely hard as the others), amazes the mostly ignorant miners as well. They’re eager for more revelations. 

“Move those fingers like you’re jackin’ him,” Samson says. “While you suck.” 

Chloe knows better than to balk a third time. Her fingers move haltingly between the once inseparable barrels of bull meat. The urethra is pushed to one side. The mouth that provides the 16-year-old with such a wide smile opens to swallow the engorged glans and a few inches of cock behind it. Amazingly, the tenor of Angus’ muffled vocalizations changes. He thrusts toward the petite prostitute as far as the ropes will allow. The crowd laughs and applauds the cocksman’s unflagging desire for a hot mouth on his fantastic member. Maybe it’s the Indian’s drug driving his lust, but who cares? 

Soon, Chloe has all four fingers between the cavernosa of the cock. She is able to close her fist around the right half of the double-barreled splatter gun. The single cavernosum, easily as thick as a whole penis on any other man, fits comfortably in her grip. 

Emotions skitter helter-skelter through Chloe’s mind. Fresh tears come every time she thinks about the cruelty of the preacher, Samson, the Indian, and all of Deadwood. How can they do this to a kind and generous man just because his meat is bigger than theirs? That’s what it is, she realizes. They hate him because women love him and because his wonderful cock and balls put theirs to shame. 

At the same time, Chloe feels guilty. She’s so wet and her tits are pointing so hard. How many women can say they’ve put their hand through a man’s boner? Or sucked him just before he was castrated with his uncased nuts dangling like Christmas tree ornaments? And all on a stage in front of hundreds of envious men and jealous women? Dubious honors to be sure, but she wants desperately to sneak her left hand off her smooth thigh and rub her clit. 

Before she can work up the courage to masturbate in front of the grotesque Reverend Olsen, Clem and Calhoun carry out her teeter-totter. Clem tilts the front end of the board down and fits it between the kneeling girl’s heels and round little butt. Chloe spreads her knees and slides her ass up the silk covered surface, leaning forward to keep her mouth on the champ’s cock. Calhoun pivots the board up as Chloe rotates gracefully on the tender flesh of her inner thighs from a straddling position to belly down. The toned legs sweep backward with perfect toe-point to lay on the board as well. The swollen cockhead never slips from her mouth. 

The artful maneuvers lack the jaw-dropping effect of splitting the skinned halves of Johansen’s organ with her fingers, but they impress the Deadwooders anyway. The Reverend forgets to scowl momentarily just as he was about to object to fornication getting in the way of emasculation. The nude grace of the circus-trained whore awes even him. He even applauds once, only once, with the rest of the audience. 

Chloe turns to her admirers and licks for a moment instead of sucking, letting them see her shining dark eyes and a revived smile as she laps the hot head of the doomed dick. Just then, Samson reaches between her legs, his middle finger finding her button. Chloe’s body reacts without consulting her brain. The simple touch acts as a trigger and she shoves herself onto Samson’s hand already convulsing with the surprise orgasm. The saloonkeeper pushes her head back onto the boxer’s bone while she writhes for a good 30 seconds, the Eights’ patrons cheering. 

When the spasms subside, Chloe buckles down to the real business at mouth. The bartenders tilt the board to match the up angle of the long erection. They nudge the base of the teeter-totter forward a bit. The whore’s whole body begins to slide. 

One layer of silk is fitted to the board; it doesn’t move. The loosely draped top layer sticks to the slightly damp skin of the child-like prostitute, but it rides over the first layer with almost no friction. 

Chloe rolls her eyes up to look at the champ’s face. Pain is there, and desire. She hopes he’ll forgive what she’s about to do. The first few seconds of bob-sliding on the penis have been assisted by her left hand on the board, tugging and pushing her tiny weight up and down the incline. Now, she releases the board, gives her left nipple a quick, thrilling pinch and puts her hand gracefully in the small of her back. With her fine ankles crossed in the air, it’s obvious that her back-and-forth locomotion is powered only by the right hand still wedged between the barrels of Johansen’s giant prick. 

The transition is accomplished smoothly, although the crowd is still astonished when the boxer’s butt is hauled away from the barrel on the whore’s first pull. He grunts deeply. The root of the cock, loosened by Kwenimo’s yanking, now extends toward Chloe, tenting the skin at the base. The sensual mouth of the girl encompasses six inches of dick as the little body slides down the silk covered board. 

Chloe keeps her eyes locked on Angus as she begins to deep throat more of the champion cock. When she pushes off, his ass compresses against the barrel staves. His victimized staff shortens as it’s shoved momentarily deeper into his groin. She knows the yanking and shoving hurts him and pleasures him at the same time. And she knows too that if she wasn’t using this brutal technique on her own, Samson would eventually instruct her to do so. Moving herself via her grip on the split organ makes a cruel sort of sense if you’re playing to the crowd, and she must. 

It’s not long before Chloe’s oral ride consumes 8 and then 10 inches of penis. The thick log distorts her throat, allowing the watchers to track its progress. The whore is enduring her own measure of pain. Sword swallowing is much easier. Samson hasn’t forgotten about her pleasure, however. 

The saloonkeeper passes word to the bar patrons that, for a small price, the girl’s sweet cunt can be diddled while she sucks the Magnificent Member of Angus Johansen, the Heavyweight Champion of the World, before the parts are justly carved free of the callow rapist. Samson assures them it’s a moment of historic significance. They don’t want to be left out. 

The champ hears the pronouncement about the impending amputation and some of his terror returns. The girl uses all of her skills to redirect his attention to her mouth on his cock. She succeeds as much as can be expected. 

She tries not to think how dirty are the rough fingers that begin playing with her baby pussy. She keeps her eyes on Angus and imagines the fingers are from his hands. She begins to come then and remains in a state of almost constant orgasm, diving deeper with each push and pull of the fist trapped between the pinching cavernosa of Angus’ rock hard penis. 

Eventually, after many attempts, the young tongue licks at the raw flesh where Kwenimo has peeled Angus’ skin away. She wiggles the exposed urethra with the pink tip and withdraws from the long downward stroke. She gasps, for air and from the climaxes exploding between her legs. On her next impalement, she shows her teeth and pretends to savage the already raw tissues of the cock’s open wound. 

Breathe again then down again. This time, Chloe removes her hand from behind her narrow waist to cup the boxer’s big right nut, hanging by its thick threads. She bounces it, squeezes it, swings it almost gently into its neighbor then stretches the spermatic cord until a strangled howl from Angus makes her stop. Then there’s no more air. 

Samson’s hands on her shoulders pull her completely off the dick. He jerks her fingers from between its barrels. The throbbing 19 inches wobble and sway without her guidance. The Reverend thinks Samson’s ready to get on with decocking and castrating the massively endowed Romeo. But no, now the saloonkeeper wants Johansen to penetrate the whore’s dripping cunt. 

Clem and Calhoun untie the ropes around Johansen’s ankles and allow him to stand while Chloe jacks the big rod with her small hands. He’s hobbled with a short length of rope immediately. The gagged boxer doesn’t understand what’s happening and neither does the crowd, but both wait expectantly. 

The ropes on Angus’ arms are untied from the barrel too, but the ends remain in the hands of the bartenders. He’s given enough slack to flex the strained muscles. 

“I’m going to pull that gag off here in a second so you can answer me, rapist,” Samson says. “We’re going to extend some mercy to you — if you can behave. The Reverend wants you castrated and your cock made a trophy and a warning to all who would violate the innocent. He’d rather that happen sooner than later, but the Eights & Aces Saloon and Bordello is a place of entertainment, so justice will be meted out after you’ve had a last go with my best whore. Do you want that last poke?” 

The gag is removed. Angus draws a deep breath. 

“Listen, Samson, friend, you know what the preacher says ain’t...” 

Samson interrupts. 

“Cut ‘em off, Kwen.” 

The smiling Sioux starts forward, knife gleaming. 

“Wait, wait! Please. Yes, Samson, it’s a good deal. I’ll take one last fuck with sweet baby Chloe. That witch’s brew has me so hard nothing seems to distract, so I guess the fix is in. You’re not going to let me out of this. I’ll take her, give you a show, go out shooting.” 

“Good, though you might refrain from more speeches.” 

Angus nods and staggers forward in his hobbles to grasp Chloe by her unmatured hips. But as their eyes meet, he moves one hand to touch her soft cheek and she raises her back from the board to hold his head, kiss him and whisper apologies that the closest of the spectators hear. 

The Olsen twins, touched by the display of affection, seem to wish they could express their regrets as well. Their religion-mad father would never allow it. He’s almost apoplectic now. He hadn’t viewed his agreement with Samson in quite these pornographic terms. 

From behind the clutching couple, Kwenimo whips a strip of leather against the tender, gargantuan blue-white testicles. Angus yelps. 

“Fuck her, you dumb ox. That was the deal,” Samson threatens. 

The boxer moves quickly to comply, making his first thrust clumsy. Chloe yelps in her turn when the giant head of the cock rams between her pussy lips. The beautiful face squeezes into an attitude of hurt that remains for the first few seconds of penetration. Despite her well-oiled cunt and despite the recent days of riding Angus’ dick, the tiny snatch is still tight. She takes a few moments to adjust to the stretching the meaty johnson forces on her. 

Spurred by the assault on the teen cunt, a fourth of the men in the crowd have their dicks out now. Three of the Eights’ dozen whores are being fucked openly. 

Carrie Kate, the more aggressive of the two Olsen twins, feels a tugging on the ladder-back of her chair. She saw Billy Young, the banker’s horny son, standing behind her earlier. She feigns Christian revulsion at the scene before her and pushes her chair back a short distance out of her father’s vision. The boy’s penis, a respectable eight inches, parts her blonde curls and lays along her jaw and neck. She shivers at the hot contact, turns her head to quickly kiss the head of the boy cock then reaches up to play with it. Her father watches the boxer and the whore pump each other, oblivious to his daughter’s lewd behavior just two chairs down. Others in the crowd are not so blind. They point, whisper, and grin. 

Angus fits as much of the 19-inch hardness into Chloe as he can, but the dark-eyed saloon angel isn’t deep enough to fuck his cock down to the flayed section. When he strikes bottom she flinches, as she always does, and moans with ecstasy because it hurts so good. Her state of constant orgasm returns as the grand bone spreads her vaginal walls again and again. 

A miner steps out of the crowd and seizes the head of the young girl. He sticks a fat, uncircumcised dick into her mouth. Samson kicks the drunken lout away before she has to taste his smegma. There’s no way to let anyone face-fuck Chloe without obscuring the crowd’s view, or Samson would have let it continue — for a fee. 

Perhaps most entertaining for the crowd at the moment is the sight of Johansen’s massive and vulnerable balls swinging freely between his legs. The harder the stroke, the harder they slap against Chloe’s ass. On the rebound, they swing in a pendulum arc to bounce off Angus’ own clenched butt muscles. On shallower thrusts there’s even room for the nuts to collide with the peeled part of the shaft, doubling the agony of the ecstasy. Once, the left nut flies past the shaft and lands atop the flayed cavernosa at the height of its arc. It lays there for a second, a big, gleaming, dinosaur egg. Chloe brushes it off her lover’s dick with a sweet grin. The crowd responds with applause, laughter, shouts, and more hurried jacking. 

At a signal from Samson, Clem and Calhoun pull on the ropes attached to Johansen’s wrists. He uncertainly but obediently steps back from the girl, cockhead popping up when it slips wetly from her cunt. Samson yanks the clothes off Deirdre, the Eights’ second most favorite whore. Kwenimo fills her hands with a lubricant while Samson speaks low in her ear. She kneels behind Angus and takes the boxer’s big fruit in her hands. 

Perhaps the Indian has mixed some sort of narcotic in the slick mixture. Slathering the grapefruit-sized nuts with the stuff doesn’t seem to cause any pain to the raw flesh, just the opposite. Angus groans with pleasure and reaches back to caress Deirdre's cheek. She coats the jism jewels thickly, holding them out so the crowd can watch. The cords she slicks up too, drawing each between her fingers, thrumming the connections like guitar strings to see them vibrate. Chloe again fondles the head of the bull dick and her own clit during the interlude. 

Deirdre tells Chloe to hold the penis high as she urges Angus to shuffle forward again. The meat’s not to go back in her cunt. The two bartenders swing around in front of the boxer and the pair of whores, suggesting that they’ll use the ropes to prevent him pulling away from Chloe. 

“Turn on your side, sweetie. Put your right foot up on Angus’ big chest to give us a good look,” Deirdre tells her young friend. 

Chloe faces the crowd as the couple’s groins are brought closer together. The extended cockhead is close enough to kiss if she bends a little, so she does. Angus calls her “baby” when she worms the tip of her tongue into his generous piss slit. Sticky pre-cum is inside. 

Deirdre, still massaging the gigantic balls, picks up the left one as she begins to lubricate Chloe’s anus. The latest sex game becomes clear. Everyone reacts. Chloe lets out a small squeal. Angus yells and tries to jerk back against the ropes, although by this point he’s given up on escaping the pain. He may even be acting. Deirdre grins, trying to put a brave face on things. She’s not a sadist, but she is a whore. 

Once Chloe’s little butt is opened a bit, Deirdre begins to insert the majestic left nut, which bulges and rolls and resists being forced into the tight space. The boxer can’t hold back a bellow of pain. It’s far more pressure than the narcotic can blank out. As Deirdre learns a workable method, the testicle slowly disappears inside the girl’s ass. Chloe’s tears and the teeth digging into her lip seem to signal three watching men to blow their wads almost simultaneously. A fourth, the banker’s son, creams into Carrie Kate’s hair. The preacher’s daughter laps at the juice. 

Incredibly, the second testicle follows the first, causing even more pain to the peeled organs. Deirdre pushes them deeper until the spermatic cords are taut and Chloe is slapping at her hands. The red-haired whore feels sorry for the girl and the boxer, but when Chloe clenches her bowels to force the impossibly big things out, Deirdre pushes them right back in, Angus yelling all the while. 

Both victims decide to endure the malicious game while it lasts. Not much can be done to stop it. They don’t try to conceal expressions of pain. Both are smart enough to know that stoicism will only bring worse attacks and hasten Angus’ dismemberment, but neither lets the pain take over completely. That might annoy the crowd, too, and the crowd must be kept happy. Chloe even plays with the 19-inch cock and sucks when her nerve endings aren’t overloading the pain center of her brain. Finally, Deirdre stops inserting and yanking out the fantastic balls. 

For her encore, the pretty, red-haired girl clamps her hand around both long cords and draws the fruit behind the boxer’s legs to pull him away from Chloe. She rotates the testicles around each other. The cords begin to braid themselves together. The spinning continues until the neat, tight, alternating lines of the cords begin to double and knot. Angus’ lungs are working fast. When the balls are wrapped so tight they’re hard against his butt, Samson brings a chair and forces the champion to sit on the very edge, the knotted nuts barely visible below his quivering thighs. Deirdre flicks her wrist and they unwind, whirling down and around like a child’s toy then twisting up again, then untwisting and back until at last they stop. Someone whistles, shrilly. General chuckling. 

But Deirdre’s not done. Samson speaks low. Angus must stand now. 

She collects the misused cum glands and waggles them by the cords in her fist, slowly at first, causing them to flop ponderously. The shaking accelerates gradually until she’s whipping the balls in short, blurry arcs to beat against her hand, causing the vulnerable fighter to quiver and moan. When his knees start to give way from the abuse, she follows him down, one arm around his muscular, corrugated middle. Once he can sink no further, she bangs the nuts against the floor. It raises him up again — off his heels. The broad shoulders hunch and the thick leg muscles stand out when she pulls down again to batter the unprotected balls for another round. It’s a contest to see which pain is worse, the stretching of the cords or the pounding of the testicles. The fleshy fruit deform visibly each time they impact the splintered floor boards, and their delicate covering begins to abrade from all the abuse. 

Samson at last tells her, “OK, slut. Let him go.” She puts a contrite kiss on Angus’ cheek and smoothes his sweaty hair before rising. It’s a shame, she thinks, to destroy such a beautiful set of male parts. Conversely, controlling such a powerful man after long years of being manhandled by the ungentle clientele of the Eights has been exhilarating. 

The saloonkeeper is not half as repentant. He kicks the champion to a standing position and then up to the teeter-totter where Chloe still reclines, holding her mistreated privates with both hands. Kwenimo grabs the great dick ahead of the reaching girl and pulls it over the top of the sawhorse base of the teeter-totter. In his hand is a hammer. The Sioux medicine man shoves a very large nail between the skinned cavernosa and pounds it into the crossbeam below. 

Angus barely reacts, the two barrels of hardness are already split and the nail missed the urethra; the steel between them hardly registers as pain. He’s worried all the same. He becomes more worried when Kwenimo bends the top of the nail over with a few well placed hammer blows. Another nail is fixed between the engorged meat and bent the other way. The boxer’s dick can slide forward and back along the four inches of split shaft but otherwise the nails have immobilized it. 

Even as hard-nippled Chloe extends a hand to fondle the hugeness once more, Kwenimo drops his hammer and picks up his knife, raising it over the very base of Angus’ mammoth horse cock, and prepares the downward slice that will sever that massive unit from the young boxer’s magnificently muscular body… 


  1. Wow.....I'm so fucking horny reading that....can't wait for the ending

    1. I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the story so far! Some serious damage has already been done to Angus' fantastic bone and gonads...but just wait until you read what happens to him in the third and final chapter!! :D

  2. The vocabulary's a lil bit hard for me since Eng is not my first language and I had a hard time picturing how Chloe do her acrobatic thingy but OMFG! I've never read anything like this before! Especially when you see the glans being exposed and split by sections. So hot that I'm wet without touching my self! I don't want the torturing to end so soon! Hope the next part featuring a lot more testicles busting!

    1. I'm so happy that you're enjoying this story, BB Daddy! It is one of the most brutal that I've posted to this blog. I hope you enjoy the third chapter as well! :)

  3. Tedium, repetitive, uninteresting characters and action that doesn't move, just endlessly repeats boring dialogue. Who cares if he does or does not get gelded. I didn't.

    1. I appreciate your comments, and I'm sorry that you didn't care for my rewrite of this story. I hope you can find other stories on this blog that are more to your liking...but I must warn you, I do tend to repeat a lot of the same things, and I think the action in many of my stories could be described as tedious and repetitive.