Castration Warehouse - Part 12 - Finale

Happy Saturday to you all! 

Here is the final installment in the "Castration Warehouse" series. I hope that you all enjoyed the ride! I don't currently have any plans to continue this series with additional "guest stars" (aka. victims), but the possibility is always there. And who knows -- perhaps Jack Samson has some equally gifted brothers or cousins who might somehow find their way into Mitch's ungentle clutches...  ;) 

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Castration Warehouse - Part Twelve

Based on an original story by RackTheSack 

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PART TWELVE — whipping

Jack half feared and half hoped that the five cruel and brutal men were going to castrate him then and there, but he was wrong. In fact, the men spent the next hour or so lounging around, talking and laughing and eating a hardy breakfast that one of the men brought in from outside the enormous room. The young football star was left to hang from his restraints in continuing agony, exhausted and utterly hopeless, as the other naked men paraded around him and largely ignored him. 

Perversely, Jack’s colossal cock remained steel hard and ramrod straight, bloated to dimensions even Jack had never seen before, looking for all the world like it was ready to fuck. Jack had never before felt as ashamed and defeated as he did in that moment, and he silently cursed his humongous cock for betraying him so many times throughout the night and morning. 

Jack’s pulsing bull cock finally caught the attention of one of the men. The curious man retrieved the sperm-drenched measuring tape that had been discarded hours ago in one of the many huge puddles of the young man’s slowly cooling splooge, and then advanced on the bound college jock. While the other men smiled and watched, the goon unfurled the damp fabric down the length of Jack’s titanically tumescent dick. The man’s arrogant smirk turned to a look of stunned surprise as he read aloud the length of Jack’s hyper bloated cock — 16.5 inches! The lad’s monstrous dick had been so terminally aroused by the night’s proceedings that it had gained a full TWO INCHES in length!! 

With slightly trembling hands, the big man started taking other dimension of the young man’s herculean cock, reading the numbers aloud to an appreciative and impressed audience. The purple-hued bulb of the lad’s enormous cock head alone was 3.5 inches long and damn near 10 inches around! The thickest part of the towering shaft, just a couple of inches behind the head, was a monstrous 4 inches wide and 12.5 inches around! Talk about a hole buster!! At this size, there was no orifice in the human body that the kid could possibly fuck! The thug let out a low whistle as he discovered something else — tiny, almost invisible stretch marks were now running up and down the entire length of the stud’s cock! That almost certainly meant that the added length and girth to Jack’s already-gigantic erection was permanent!! Even if the five big men untied the handsome college jock now and let him go — something that, of course, would never happen — the hyper endowed kid would never be able to fuck again!! The cruel men laughed and guffawed and high-fived one another, congratulating themselves on having already wrecked the ridiculously beautiful stud’s love life forever, before they even got around to nutting the big lug. 

Eager hands then started measuring the equally stratospheric dimensions of the lad’s newly-bloated bollocks. The impossibly huge sex organs hung extremely heavy in their abused and abraded sac, their natural and already impressive 3-inch dangle having now doubled to a truly extraordinary 6 inches. That mind-boggling scrotal stretch looked to possibly be permanent as well… not that it would matter soon. The neck of his stretched-out scrotum looked very narrow compared to the swollen immensity of the two titanic testicles below, but was actually quite large itself, measuring 5.5 inches around and nearly 2 inches in diameter. That incredibly long scrotal neck contained the all-important cords, cables, tendons, and blood vessels that kept those massive nuts attached to his body, as well as the unusually thick cum tubes that helped drain the sperm from those almighty spunk bunkers whenever he ejaculated. 

Before moving on to the dimensions of the balls themselves, the big thug — a born showman — first took very thorough measurements of the rest of the young man’s spectacularly muscular body, from his almost comically thick bison neck (23.5 inches around) to his feet (size 14 hooves that were just as insanely muscular and veiny as the rest of his magnificent body), and everything  in between. As awesome and awe inspiring as all of those numbers were, the other four men grew more and more impatient, until the thug with the measuring tape finally knelt down and turned his attention to the lad’s monstrous bollocks. 

The beautiful grapefruit-sized orbs from earlier in the evening had been replaced by a pair of hideously bloated monstrosities, the delicate and tender testicles having swollen until they’d more than doubled in mass and were now even larger than the largest of ostrich eggs. The big thug first measured the vertical length of each identical orb, which had originally been 5 inches, letting out a low whistle when he read the new result of 7.5 inches! Their width was nearly as impressive, increasing from an already massive 4.5 inches to a full 6 inches! The circumference around the body of each puffy and distended orb was even more eye popping, swelling from an already obese 14 inches to a truly mind boggling 19 inches, bigger around than most men’s upper arms!! And combined, that double-barreled mass of brutally battered male flesh stretched the measuring tape to a staggering 30 full inches!! That was nearly as big around as Jack’s own tight, muscular, and exquisitely chiseled waist!! 

Another thug retrieved a scale on a wheeled table against the far wall, the kind used in grocery stores to weigh meat in the butcher department, and placed the table in front of the immobile and softly whimpering football jock. He then gently, almost reverently, lifted up both of Jack’s whopping huge bollocks and placed them on the scale, eagerly watching the digital readout. Quiet gasps could be heard coming from all five men when they read the combined weight of the young man’s monumentally swollen balls, which was an astonishing 19.2 pounds! That was just over 8.5 pounds per nut!! The density of ball meat within each orb must have been almost super human, for the lad’s behemoth bollocks weighed even more than they appeared, if that was even possible! 

After hearing those final dimensions read, all five men stepped forward and began fondling every inch of Jack’s magnificent bound form, reveling in the almost impossible size and beauty of the college jock’s incredible body, still utterly magnificent even in its current severely bruised and battered state. They all knew that they would never see a stud of Jack’s unbelievably lofty caliber ever again — not unless Jack had any equally gifted brothers, or if they perhaps sought out the young man’s studly sire — so they took their time in engraining every last delicious detail of this paragon of masculine perfection into their memories before moving on to his ultimate unmanning. 

Two of the men began operating a winch, and a weary and quietly sobbing Jack suddenly found himself rising higher in the air. He had been just below eye level with his unusually tall and ridiculously muscular assailants, but now he was hoisted upward until his deep and sexy navel was at about even with the men’s faces. The two men backed away to join their fellows while Mitch stepped forward, brandishing a long bullwhip made of supple black leather. The big blond man uncoiled the whip and cracked it a few times in the air as if to test it out, making Jack flinch each time. And then the cruelly smirking man turned to the bound football stud and said, “It’s almost over now, Jack.” 

The big man then began to expertly slash and swish the long leather whip through the air, drawing out Jack’s terror like a fine wine. He was toying with the lad, while simultaneously reveling in the handsome young jock’s last minutes as an intact male. The other four men took up positions with the best view of the events to come, sitting in their folding chairs and playing with themselves, tremendously aroused as they prepared to watch a master artisan at work. They all loved their work, especially when they were allowed to go all the way and destroy a man’s balls, and surely no man on earth had a set of testicles that could even remotely rival the colossal set hanging from their achingly handsome young captive. 

Without warning, the bullwhip suddenly lashed out and struck the side of Jack’s goliath left nut, creating a gash several inches long in the young man’s bruised and abraded ball sac. Jack cried out in equal parts pain and horror as he felt the sharp and stinging bite of the whip, but could only watch helplessly as the grinning muscle titan began swinging the whip once more, looking for his next target. Mitch circled his prey for a bit before lashing out again, this time striking the right side of the heavy and overloaded sac and opening up a second long gash. 

So it began. Mitch continued attacking Jack’s scrotum from various and unexpected directions, opening up a new gash in the enormous sac every 15 to 20 seconds, flaying open the nutbag more and more with each strike. Blood was soon dripping freely into the lake of milky white sperm below as the big man steadily slashed the huge sac apart, opening up more and more holes in the soft, thin, tender skin. The glistening orbs underneath were wholly untouched, however, for Mitch was an unparalleled maestro with the whip, wielding it with the exquisite precision of a surgeon. 

After about 20 minutes, Mitch had opened up a good 50 or 60 gashes in Jack’s bleeding nutsac, reducing the enormous pouch to a lattice of skin strips barely containing the colossal testicles within. The shiny walls of the great balls themselves were now showing through dozens of large holes, a mottled reddish-purple hue showing through the shiny whiteness of the thick outer walls, visible evidence of the heavy bruising that had been inflicted right down to the very heart of each titanic orb. 

Sweat glistened on Mitch’s heroically muscular form as he gazed on his handiwork with arousal and pride. The big man knew that if he stopped now — as in right the fuck now — the ridiculously handsome muscle jock’s shredded scrotum could still be stitched back together. It wouldn’t be pretty, as it would be a patchwork of lacerated skin that would forever bear the ugly scars of his epic whipping. But even at this late stage, the gorgeous lad could still leave the vast room as in intact male, surviving to live and rut and cum another day. Mitch’s cruel grin grew even wider as he quashed any hope of a reprieve, and he began to slash the deadly bullwhip through the air once more. 

The subsequent whip strikes began to tear away entire strips of shredded scrotal skin, excising the nutsac bit by bit and gradually exposing more and more of the naked testicles beneath. As the structural integrity of the massive nut pouch began to falter and fail, Jack’s huge and heavy balls began to sag even lower still, their ballsac no longer able to support and contain the vast oval orbs of the young man’s gargantuan manhood. Torn strips of scrotal flesh hit the sperm-drenched floor with wet, gruesome sounds. After about 30 more strikes, Jack’s goliath right nut tumbled out of his shredded sac, the whitish orb glistening wetly as it drooped down yet another inch or two on the ends of its cords, exposed to the open air for the first time in its existence. It took another 20 or 30 whip strikes before that nut’s twin also spilled forth to the end of its cords, and then another 20 or 30 more blows before all that remained of the young man’s once-gorgeous pouch was a few tattered shreds dangling from the base of his crotch. 

Mitch paused at that point, temporarily laying down his whip so that he could examine the young man’s wet and naked nuts. The testicles themselves looked even more monstrous and obscene than ever with their protective scrotum removed, looking simultaneously hideous and deeply erotic as they dangled from their separate bundles of cords. The big blond drank in the sight as he came closer and stood before the softly panting young man, his handsome head hanging down in bone-deep exhaustion and extreme burning agony. 

Mitch had seen literally hundreds of sets of naked testicles in his life, but he’d never seen a set as beautiful and magnificent as these. The gigantic bulky orbs themselves weren’t smooth like other men’s nuts, but were instead covered in a complex tracery of thick, tortured blood vessels, their bluish-purple color adding to the rosy hue of bruising shining through the thick white walls of the balls themselves. The raised tubules of dozens and dozens of veins on each behemoth ball gave the otherwise smooth and gently curved surface of each nut a complex webwork of ridges, turning each ball into an epic relief map of extreme maleness. The tops and backs of each nut were covered by an unusually large and dense epididymus, the complex network of tissues that collected the sperm cells manufactured within the testicles themselves and prepared them for transport up the vas deferens. 

Unable to resist, Mitch reached forward and cupped one gigantic testis in each of this huge hands, the shiny orbs feeling slick and incredibly heavy. Jack winced and grunted as the big blond’s hands came into contact with his naked nuts, deeply disturbed by the sensation of direct contact with his excised bull balls. Mitch ran his thumbs over the wet, vein-ridged surface of each orb, marveling once more at their spectacular size, and awed by the raw power and virility he could feel surging through each rotund nut even now. His fingers then began to probe and explore the squishy epididymus tissues along the back of each orb, the painful sensation causing the young lad to groan in protest once more. The big man fondled those two oversized ostrich eggs for many long minutes, overwhelmed with lust as he groped and caressed the largest set of nuts in human history. 

Mitch finally released the massive orbs and instead began to explore the complex bundle of tendons, cables, cords, and blood vessels that extended from the tops of the two huge testicles to their anchor points beneath Jack’s towering pillar of a cock. He was fascinated by the dense bundles, and was astounded by the unusual thickness of the tendons and other connective tissues, as well as the massive size of the two vas deferens. The gently pinched these bundles between his big thumb and forefinger, becoming extremely intimate with the inner workings of the lad’s sexual plumbing. 

By the time Mitch was finished fondling and exploring Jack’s exposed and naked manhood, it was late morning. It had been two hours since he’d planted his third load up the hunky stud’s exquisitely chiseled ass, and extraordinarily more than 16 hours since Jack’s tortures had begun. The young man had lasted more than three times longer than any previous man, and endured abuses and torments MANY orders of magnitude greater than the most brutal tortures the five men had ever meted out before. The breathtakingly handsome muscle hunk had taken nearly a score of bull loads up his battered chute, and had himself reached orgasm twice as many times, evincing a level of virility and staying power unequalled among men. He had been the most magnificent subject of torture and abuse that the five big men had ever seen, but now it was time to bring his legendary manhood to a brutal end. 

The big blond giant once again retrieved his bullwhip, and began circling the young muscle stud once more. Jack was quietly whimpering and mewling, far beyond pleas for mercy at this point, and could only watch with terror-stricken eyes as Mitch prepared to unman him. 

Mitch took his time, and selected his targets with the utmost care. His detailed exploration of Jack’s nuts hadn’t been for nothing, as the big man wanted to target only the tendons and cables and other connective tissues attaching the young man’s bollocks to his body, but leaving the blood vessels, nerve fibers, and vas deferens intact. With uncanny precision, Mitch began to strike these cords and cables, slashing at them over and over again. Jack’s tendons proved to be unusually tough, however, and put up a surprising amount of resistance. But it wasn’t long before the tough tendons began to snap one by one, gradually untethering Jack’s mammoth nuts from his body, and allowing them to drop lower and lower on their remaining cables. 

The four seated men were furiously fisting their rock hard cocks as they watched their big blond leader ever so slowly emasculate the handsome and hunky captive. They were all rapidly approaching orgasm, eager and hungry to see Mitch bring a painful and violent end to the young lad’s ridiculously oversized manhood. 

Cables and tendons snapped one after the other, forcing the far more elastic blood vessels and vas deferens to take up the slack, straining to carry a weight far in excess of what they were designed for. Jack’s nuts were now hanging well over a full FOOT from his crotch, and drooping even lower with each passing whip strike. It was the most intensely erotic sight the men had ever seen. 

Suddenly and without warning, Jack hit an unexpected and brutally violent orgasm, his 40th of the night. Perhaps his testicles sensed that their untimely end was imminent, and were desperate for one last chance to impregnate something, anything, before they were destroyed. Regardless of the reason, this final ejaculation was Jack’s most powerful and intense of the entire night, and his entire magnificently muscular form bucked and quaked with the unearthly force of his orgasm. 

And perhaps even more amazingly, the young man’s mighty sperm factories had taken the past two hours to recharge faster than they ever had before, and were now throwing everything they had into the single greatest and most voluminous ejaculation of the young man’s life! 

The first almighty rope of the young man’s spunk shot out with such force that it nearly reached halfway to the ceiling high overhead, launching out in a wide, graceful arc to strike the gray cement floor a good 50 or 60 feet away! That first gigantic slug of creamy white splooge was so dense with sperm that it had a consistency thicker than yogurt, and was so voluminous that it easily eclipsed anything else that they sexy football stud had shot that entire night! A second, equally massive blast of cum shot forth, followed by another, and another, and another and another, in a seemingly endless barrage of hyper virile magnificence, a testicular purging of near mythic proportions. 

The four seated men instantly began to groan and shudder in their own violent orgasms, sent hurtling over the edge by the sight of the handsome football star’s final and utterly epic release. Mitch held on to his own load by the barest of fractions, however, and continued slashing away at Jack’s balls, rapidly eliminating the final cords and tendons supporting the enormous, heavy, sagging orbs, even as they throbbed and convulsed and tried to pump out every last sperm within their vast interiors. 

Finally, the only tissues supporting Jack’s beyond bovine balls were the blood vessels, nerve fibers, and thick tube of vas deferens that Mitch had carefully avoided whipping. The young man’s bollocks were bouncing and jiggling on the ends of these slender and stretched out tethers even as they continued their astounding purge of sperm from their meaty interiors, and were now hanging impossibly low, five or perhaps even six times lower than their original 3-inch dangle. But incredibly, despite all of the horrific abuse they had suffered over the previous 17 hours, they were very much still alive! Perhaps they could still have been salvaged as well, though who could say if a man’s testicles could survive long outside the protective embrace of their scrotum and without all of the cords and cables that usually anchored them in place. 

Mitch lashed out with the bullwhip, striking one, two, three, four more times, and Jack’s bloated and swollen right testicle was severed forever from its owner, dropping very heavily to the cum-flooded floor with a loud and meaty splat. Jack cried out with a truly thunderous bellow of epic agony and loss as he felt half of his mighty manhood ripped from his body. Yet his monumental orgasm continued, though instantly reduced notably in size and volume, as his final nut tried to desperately blow it’s thick and chunky ballast. 

Jack was bucking and thrashing so hard against his restraints that it looked like he might tear himself apart. But Mitch paused only briefly before turning his attention to the young man’s last dangling nut. Unfortunately for Jack, it took another ten lashes to finish off his left nut, dropping his final bowling ball of a gonad into the veritable ocean of procreative fluids covering a vast swath of the concrete floor. As the gigantic bollock fell free, Mitch trembled in pleasure as he shot his own massive hands-free load, signaling his victory over the fallen football hero. 

None of the men were sure when Jack passed out. The sudden and violent loss of his manhood was more than even his mighty body could take, and the handsome young muscle stud had finally, mercifully fallen unconscious. He remained unconscious as four of the men lowered Jack down and cleaned up his battered and broken body, with one of the men trimming away the dangling cords and shreds of scrotal skin — the last remnants of his obliterated manhood — and roughly stitched the raw wound at his crotch closed. Mitch meanwhile picked up the young former stud’s two severed testicles off the floor, amazed that they seemed to weigh even more now that they had been separated from the handsome lad’s spectacular body. He had an enormous glass cylinder filled with preservative fluids waiting in the next room, and he intended to place the glistening white testicles within as a trophy and keepsake, so that he could forever remember and relish this moment. Once the other men had patched Jack up as well as they could, they then pumped him full of antibiotics and additional sedatives, wanting to ensure that he remained unconscious. Finally, they released him from his bonds, placing him on a large wheeled gurney and preparing to secret him back to his college apartment. 

Meanwhile, Jessica Akers smiled contentedly as she watched the proceedings on closed circuit TV from her office. More than a dozen hidden cameras had been trained on young Jack Samson throughout his torment, torture, and unmanning, with each camera recording more than 18 hours of absolutely incredible footage. Jessica herself was still reeling in amazement, and would not have believed the amazing events of the night and morning if she had not seen it herself. The recordings would be added to her vast personal video library — which she used for her own amusement, as well as insurance against any of her clients if they should try to cross her in the future — but she already knew that she would be accessing these recordings again and again and again. She also decided that she would be giving each of her men a $10,000 bonus on top of their usual fee, twice that for Mitch, in recognition of the absolutely stellar work they had accomplished that night. 

As she watched her men wheel Jack’s beautiful but inert form out of the warehouse, she picked up the burner phone on the side of her desk, and dialed a phone number. The cultured voice of a young woman answered on the other end, the sounds of a busy restaurant audible in the background. 

“It is done,” Jessica said before hanging up the phone, and then removing and destroying the phone’s SIM card. She then leaned back in her expensive leather chair and contemplated the ways she could spend the small fortune of money she had just earned… 

Epilogue

Ten years later…

Veronica sat in the shade of an umbrella, gazing across the lush grounds of the estate to watch her eldest children play tennis with Richard. Her husband was more handsome than ever, his masculine beauty having deepened over the years, and her heart swelled with love for him. But she felt that her chest might burst for the love she felt for her children as she watched them laugh and play with their beloved father. They were all spectacularly beautiful and gifted children, ranging in age from infant to age 9, and they all looked like a perfect blend of her and her husband. 

The gorgeous young woman felt a slight pang in her side, and her soft blue eyes gazed down lovingly at her swollen belly, where the next in her large brood of children were steadily maturing. She and Richard had caused quite a stir among the rich and elite when they had decided to have a large family, something very uncommon in today’s world, particularly among the upper crust. The beautiful couple claimed that they simply wanted to avoid having their family lines end, as had almost happened to the two of them, but the reality was that Veronica and Richard both loved being parents, and her husband supported her in having as many children as she wanted. And in the end, though many of the elite quietly gossiped behind their backs, almost everyone was jealous of the wealthy couple, not only for the obvious loving closeness of their relationship, but also for the staggering beauty of their many children. 

Veronica’s first pregnancy had resulted in the birth of fraternal twins, both boys, and she had instantly fallen in love with them both. So much so, in fact, that a few months after their birth, she had decided to become pregnant once more, accessing her hidden canister of frozen sperm to inseminate herself again. And again, and again, and again each subsequent year thereafter. She and Richard now had 12 children — 7 boys and 5 girls — with another two on the way. She had given birth to three sets of fraternal twins already, so her current pregnancy would be the fourth. There was no history of twins in either her or Richard’s family, so she suspected that there must be a genetic predisposition for twins in the canister of frozen sperm that she had kept secret and hidden all these years. 

The beautiful blond woman was still quite young, only in her early 30s, so she knew that she had a decade or more of potential childbearing years ahead of her. And considering the enormous volume of sperm she had harvested on that fateful night with the handsome and charming and impossibly virile Jack Samson, she had MORE than enough of his seminal fluids to sire another dozen children, if she wished! 

Speaking of that remarkable young man, Veronica tried not to think of Jack, but every know and again, her mind would wander back to that epic night of lovemaking. She felt a great deal of gratitude to the young man for having blessed her with so many beautiful children, and so she had secretly followed his life since their brief encounter. 

After Jack Samson had been discovered in his apartment, severely beaten and missing his huge testicles, the media storm that followed had been intense. But the authorities were never able to find any clues as to the identity of Jack’s attackers, let alone anything that would have tied his abduction and castration to her, and so over the months that followed, the media finally moved on. Jack himself had immediately quit football, of course, and also dropped out of college and went into hiding, trying to hide away from the press and the public, and trying to put some semblance of a life back together. 

Veronica had quietly tracked him down, however, and learned that he’d moved to a small rural town in Washington State, where he lived like a hermit. He had continued to take hormone replacement therapy to make up for his lost testicles, so he was just as fantastically handsome — and nearly as muscular — as the night the two had met. But he had never dated anyone else or ever had a romantic relationship again, instead becoming very quiet and introspective, and living on his own. 

Jack had become a very talented carpenter and wood worker, however, and crafted exquisitely beautiful furniture. Perhaps merely out of a desire to secretly have something of their real father in their lives, or perhaps out of a lingering and deeply suppressed sense of guilt, Veronica had amassed quite a collection of Jack Samson’s creations. At least one piece of furniture in each of the children’s bedrooms had been crafted by Jack’s own big, strong, powerful, and talented hands. She always purchased them through a series of intermediaries, was careful that nothing could ever be traced back to her, and always paid well over and above the asking price for each piece. And she was privately very pleased to maintain this secret connection with the fantastically handsome young man, and sometimes found herself absentmindedly stroking the grain of a particularly exquisite piece of furniture, knowing that her delicate hand was gliding over the wood that he had so lovingly and expertly carved. 

Speaking of furniture, with two little ones on the way, it was once again time to select some pieces for the nursery. She had her eye on a magnificently carved four-poster bed for one room, and an elegant low dresser for the other… 

Deadwood - The Unmanning of Angus Johansen - Part 2

Deadwood - The Unmanning of Angus Johansen - Part 2

Original story by TripWire (called “Deadwood”)

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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. 

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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…