A Humbling of the Testicles

The male was sentenced to fifty lashes upon his bare balls for insubordination to a female. Anhedonia made him stand facing the wall, his palms fixed to its cool surface by tight wrist-locks, his legs forced apart on the ground by a long metal bar which travelled between his two ankles and prevented him from shutting his legs. There he was: nude, displayed, balls glimpsed hanging from behind, a little strip of cock hanging even lower, and the cheeks of his butt were wide and manly, and she wouldn't mind missing her strike once or twice to lay a tattoo of stinging red upon all that swarthy flesh.

But her authentic target dangled before her – an innocent pair of balls that she would make swing and contract before this morning's punishments were fully meted out. The balls hung there, so vulnerable; the male was tilted slightly in his posture, so that he was forced to push his butt outward (and it became rounder, the cheeks spread and parted slightly, and the balls were exquisitely suspended between his thighs, a most delicate and begging bulls-eye for her coming administrations). The male had no clue what measure of tortures awaited him, and had arrived at the chambers with a narcissistic smile on his face, even as he had been ordered to undress. His penis was large and he seemed to take a strange pleasure in pulling off his trousers, and letting the thing hang out, as though the woman before him should be pleased in such a big example of a manhood.

But she, of course, was not pleased in the slightest. She didn't care for male sexual braggadocio and had no interest in the male organ as an object of pleasure. To her, it just hung there – big and dumb and vestigial, the balls swollen with come the male wished to release from himself. "He has no idea of the exquisite pain he is about to feel," she thought to herself. The balls may recover sometime in the distance after the fury of these fifty lashes, but the existential pain would be lodged in his being, and on lonely nights when his balls throbbed once, the memory of his humiliation, the full campaign of tortures, would be triggered by the slightest discomfort. His legs were spread, his feet and wrists were fixed; he was immobile.

She looked at the soft scrotum dangling beneath the male's buttocks. She loved the look of a male from behind, especially with his legs parted and his balls on show, perfectly accessible to her vengeful wish. She raised the whip, paused – she breathed in, and then she struck out, the whip arcing out intensely and landing a blow to the direct centre of the male's delicate parcel. He had not expected this. The feeling of the whip against his balls was like an electric current and as it impacted against his precious man-purse, he bent his knees and dropped himself a third of the way down (all he could under his restraints), pushing his butt outward, and moving his balls as if this could somehow soothe them. He let out a painful scream: "Aaaaaaah!" He flexed his knees, unable to pull his thighs shut and defend his testicles, flexed up and down as though the motion could calm the excruciations of his manhood, but they persisted, deep in the heart of him.

It was a laughable sight, a nude male pumping himself up and down on his knees, the hot balls swinging around while he shouted "ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!", and then hung limp, letting the pain wash over him. His balls looked dazed and his muscles were taut across his body, everywhere shielded for impact except his dumb balls. In a voice charged with nervousness and the first shrill notes of panic, he screamed: "why did you do that? Please, that was so painful. Please don't do that again!" The whipped stilled in the air, and then crashed down again, catching the male between his legs and causing another avalanche of screams to fall from his mouth, while he danced in his curtailed horizon of space, flailed his knees and legs and arms, trapped in place with his balls throbbing with an agony he had never known and had always feared.

The whip shot out again (smack!), and again and again (smack! smack!), and the male's roaring pleas became possessed of a fresh urgency. "Shut! your! fucking! mouth!" she growled at him, striking his delirious balls with each completion of the word. Four fiery lashes laced across his balls while he howled out ("yeeeeeee-oooooow!"), and bent his hips sideways and tilted his knees in all directions, trying anything to still the pain. Anhedonia began to laugh openly as he writhed. "God, you look ridiculous," she said, and then struck out once more, wounding the ball-bag, taking the male into the severest breach of pain he had felt so far.

"You have forty more!" she barked at him, and at once he began to whimper openly, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "No, please," he begged her, "not that many, my balls can't handle that many, please, don't do this to me, lash my butt, but not my poor, sensitive balls." He could not have imagined that the design was fifty lashes to his bare balls, for after the tenth strike, the masculine agony he felt was so consuming, he thought he may pass out. She left him whimpering in jagged recovery, wishing him to gain more slivers of lucid awareness among all his mortal terrors, before striking out at his brittle manhood again. She let fifteen ragged breaths pass through his lungs before she struck out twice (whack! whack!) and then let a full volley of eight arc out in quick succession, each one landing cruelly (whack!) upon the man's paltry testicles (whack!), hitting him in the centre of his manhood (whack!), causing his legs to shiver, his balls to shudder (whack! whack! whack!), and the man to dance into his strange rhythms of primal male vulnerability, the humiliating dance of a man who will do anything to save his nuts from hurt (whack! whack!).

At the twentieth strike, the male begun a long and mournful wail, almost religious in its sincerity, crying out from the feeling of his testicles being turned into scrambled eggs (they pulsed, raw; hot) and the sensation of his egocentric maleness coming apart and revealing to him his real vulnerabilities. Anhedonia was not interested in the dirge, she struck out once , instructing him to close his mouth, and no sooner had the whip made contact with his balls, was the song suspended mid-note, and a suppressed "mmm-", escaped from the male's sealed lips. He was made to take the next four in silence (whack! whack! whack! whack!), the whip slashing out across his balls, hitting the right testicle, and then the left, then both at once, and then ploughing into the centre and sending his balls flying.

"Your balls are fun to play with," she told the male. "They swing around so much. Let's see if I can play a game of tennis with them." The whip took its shape in the air at a cryptic angle, and then struck the ball-bag, causing the dangling scrotum to fly to the right; suddenly, the whip resumed its inhaling arch, and then struck down on the opposite side of the man's balls (glimpsed from behind, hanging so powerlessly); the balls swung to the left. So, she struck them: balls flying left, balls flying right, male shrieking in cowardice, and she began to giggle at the pendulous ball-bag, swinging so ridiculously underneath the male's butt, and she marvelled at her martial talent and quick-fire delivery of the blows: (whack! whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack!). The male buckled his knees in hot, teary regret at his maleness and his undoing, and his balls hung there in quivering expectation of fifteen more colossal blows.

"There, there, we're almost done," Anhedonia consoled the weeping male. "Now stand straight or I'll just cut them off," she seethed with voluptuous allure, and the male instantly found the strength to straighten himself and assume the posture of his punishment. "Push your butt out more, I want to see your balls!" she commanded, and the male bent his knees. Anhedonia stilled herself, and then took seven steps backward. "These are long distance strikes," she told the male, "see if they feel any different. Your balls can suffer so many different configurations of pain," and a fresh torrent of tears rolled down the male's cheeks.

She lashed out; the whip extended to its full length before its envenomed tip kissed the male's hot balls. He yipped. She lashed again, the whip assuming a serpentine coil above her, then furiously extended razor-straight and thrashing into the man's ball-bag. He yowled. The whip became a bolt once more and struck his testicles, and again and again, and once more, each time lacerating his balls with a seething sigil of pain.

"Now," Anhedonia began in her rich voice, "just ten more traditional slow-strikes for you. And you will count, and if you miss one number, your balls will be in your mouth." She steadied herself. She began. The first lash took the male, as all blows had intended, in his soft and aching balls, and no sooner had it struck, did the man scream out "wwwuuuhh-hhnnn!", as though the momentum from the shot to his nuts was driving his voice into long and girlish moans. She whipped his balls again, and the male screamed "twoooooooo!" Each time, she prepared herself for the lash, breathed in deeply, let the male tremble in his bondage and sweat in tortuous anticipation. Then the whip would punch at the balls: "threeee-eeeee! faaaaauuuuuu-hhhhhh!" The male's balls were nearing their ending-point; he could feel in the depth of his being that if she didn't show mercy to his balls soon, they would be obliterated under the strain of her vengeance.

For the final five, Anhedonia sped up the blows, reminding the male with an enchanting malevolence, "If you don't count fast enough, your nuts are going to be mine to do with as I please and I don't think you deserve them anymore." The whip lashes out, faster and faster, like lightning against the frail bag of balls, and the male struggled to keep up with the rush of her final aggressions, his voice twisted into a high-range, like an Italian castrati boy singing in the choir, while he chanted, "fiiive! siiix! seven! eeeiig-niiiiine-TEEEHHHNNN! Please god, NO MORE!" And at this, the male promptly ended his tantrum of wails and broke out once more into tears, crying like a boy for his mother, crying his eyes out, his balls hot between his legs, desperate for nurturing, for sympathy, for the mother's gentle touch, for feminine empathy with the curse of his penis and balls, crying his funereal wail, like he was saying goodbye to an close friend. The male wanted his balls to be lovingly touched, and this was all he wanted in the world.

"Now, you poor thing, don't cry," soothed Anhedonia in her honey voice. "Your punishments are over, your poor balls can rest now." The man continued to whimper and cry, so she placed a comforting arm around him and said, "Shame, your poor balls must be exhausted after what I just did to them," she mocked him. "They deserved it, the poor things, and they must take their punishment. They must learn to behave themselves. It's all over now," she caressed him, gently cupping his desperate balls in her soft palms, massaging them with a phantom touch, sending shivers of urgent pleasure amongst the exploded nerves. "Now, what have you learned from this?" she asked the male.

Through sobs and with genuine emotion, the male replied, "I have learned that I must respect all women and treat the feminine with the admiration it deserved. I have learned that I must be humble, for my masculine dominance is just an insecurity I have about my unguarded balls. I have learned that I am aggressive because I am insecure about my balls and society has mystified me with fables and myths about strong testicles and potent, virile men – but these are all lies, the balls are pathetic and stupid and all females, with their superior natural designs and imaginations, are the better of the species. I will never again feel that my balls entitle me to dominance over a woman, I will always respect that sex means placing my trust and my balls in the hands of the woman, and that my balls are always at her absolute mercy. I will walk as a humbled man because I feel that I now truly understand my testicles for what they are. Thank you, Mistress."

A glimmer of serenity prevailed over the male's face, amidst the storm of his contorted features, still struggling to cope with the beginnings of a long aftermath of delicacy ins his balls. And the Mistress, feeling genuinely sorry for the pathetic male, caressed his balls a little more to help him along with the pain, and even clutched them protectively with a shielding palm, and the male wept in gratitude, so grateful that she had made this symbolic sign of peace over the savaged territory of his manhood. She left him to recover in an introspective silence, a journey into the catacombs of his patriarchal unconscious, formed and shaped by the sensations of pain and humiliation in his balls.