The Gift of the Ball Thief

By DX

Copyrighted 4/2024, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without the author’s permission.

 He watched her from across the street.

 She lived in a quaint, charming house in the middle of the block, like the candy and gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods that lured prey in.  Her front yard was a tiny maze of bursting roses, and every year the block association presented her with a certificate for most beautiful floral display.

 But she wasn’t a witch.

 She was the Ball Thief.

 Her real name was Candice Starling, and back in the day she was the focus of every boy’s wet dream.  Her hair was black as night, and her eyes as cool as winter.  She had strong, full lips permanently shaped in a bemused smile.  Her wholesome, fulsome breasts were magically light, and somehow bigger than her callipygous hips.

 She wore high heels, even when tending to her magnificent roses, and her tiny feet danced like giggling fairies.

 When the kids played in the street, eventually a badly thrown ball would smash into her roses, splinter their delicate limbs, and scatter petals everywhere.

 More often than not, a ball smashed her front window, or dented her screen door, or cracked the siding of her house.

 Even in her controlled, steaming vexation, she was alluring, and the kids would gather and stare as she chided them.  “You must learn to be mindful of other people’s things.”  She would always say.  “You may have your ball back when you return with a parent.”

 No parent ever came.  No ball was ever returned.

 Now, twenty years later, maybe twenty-five, he stood across the street and watched as she came out with coveralls clinging to her wonderful curves and picked apart a load of cinderblocks she had delivered to her driveway.  She hadn’t aged.  The few strands of grey only highlighted her hair.  Her cheeks deepened as her looks soaked in.  Her curves became more curvier, and she was still certainly the subject of every wet dream.

 His wet dream.

 He walked across the street, not because he wanted too, he could watch her haul cement blocks all day, but because he couldn’t look away and was quickly becoming a voyeur.

 She looked up as he approached her, and her steel blue eyes snatched his breath and stopped him from introducing himself.

 “William!”  She said with a breathy smile.  “How are you?”

 William was stunned to silence and only stammered before he regained his footing  “Miss Starling!  You remember me?”  He laughed breathlessly in surprise.  “After all these years.”

 “Of course, and please, call me Candice.  You were in my class in the eighth grade.”  She said knowingly.  “You were all about word problems.  You loved logic.”  Her smile deepened.  “I used to stay up and write them just for you.”

 “I’m honored, and flattered.”  He managed to say.

 “You were an excellent student.  One of my best.”  She pulled off her work gloves and shook his hand.  “How have you been?  You went to work for that big firm… United, something something.”

 He shook her hand and marveled at its softness.  “United Conglomerate Corpora.  Over twenty years now.”  His voice saddened.

 Her face showed his pain.  “Oh, I heard, they just…”

 He shrugged.  “Crumbled like a house of cards.”  His voice lowered.  “We had agreed to stock options instead of a retirement plan.”  He grunted.  “All gone now.”  He forced himself to smile with retuned energy.  “I have prospects, and many, many options.”  He said brightly, then motioned back across the street.  “I’m with Mom until the dust settles.  And she needs the help.”

 “Of course.”  Candice said sympathetically.  “You’re bright and skilled.  You’ll be okay.”

 He nodded.  “I saw you out here and I thought that a little manual labor would be good for me… get some blisters on my hands.”  He reached down and picked up a cinderblock, surprised at its ungainly weight.

 “Oh, no!”  She said, a little embarrassed.  “I can handle this.”

 “Please, let me.”  He said, smiling.  “Mom’s out, and I need something tangible to do.  Seriously, you’d be helping me out.”

 Her eyes were full on concern.  “Well, if you’re sure.”

 “I’m sure.”

 They hauled the blocks down her driveway into her backyard, a wonderland of flora and fauna.  There, they neatly stacked them to wait for her next project, a raised bed herb garden.

 When they finished, they retreated into her kitchen and had a proper visit over tea and cake.

 He returned the following day to help her build the raised bed.

 He returned often, sometimes a few times a week.  Sometimes to help, sometimes to just visit.

 “My boyfriend and I,” she delicately slipped into conversation that she was spoken for, “are going to the open air concert tonight.  Maybe you and your… girlfriend,” she winced slightly, “boyfriend?…would like to join us?”

 He dismissed the idea.  “It’s just me, right now.”  He said, trying not to be too much a downer.  “Three’s a crowd.”  He finished his tea then looked up.  “I just… I appreciate visiting you,”  He grinned.  “and I appreciate you putting up with me.”

 She touched his hands.  “I enjoy your visits!”  Her face brightened.  “I delight having someone to talk to in the afternoons.”  She looked over her tea ware.  “I have all these herbal teas I grow in the garden and I get to share them.  You would be amazed what grows back there.”  Her eyes searched his.  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

 “I am.”  He assured her.

 As time went on he became a fixture at her table.  Sometimes she had friends over, and on more than one occasion she tried to introduce him to friends closer to his age, subtly playing the matchmaker.

 It never happened.

 Days and weeks, then months flittered on the calendar, until one day, as the fall leaves fell like snow, he went to visit.  She smiled like a spring morning when she saw him at the door.  

 “Come in!”  She ushered.  “There’s something I want to show you!”  She moved with the energy of bee, almost buzzing, as she sat him down in the kitchen in the chair where he usually sat.

 He watched her in askance as she retrieved four little jars from the shelf above the door.  They were glazed, earth-ware pottery about the size of a baseball, fat and stout, with proper fitting lids.  He had seen them a thousand times and paid them no mind, figuring they were the part of the wonderful, magical decorations she had throughout the house.  Seeing them up-close, he noticed the lids were wax sealed in place.

 She took her usual seat across from him.  She picked up one of the jars.  “I take a pottery course at the community college.”  She studied the jar, scrutinizing its invisible flaws.  “I made each of these.”  Her eyes flashed at him.  “They are very special.”  She set it down on the table for him to inspect.  “Each one contains a man’s testicles.”

 Her voice was like a saber, so keen it took seconds to bleed.  

 He said nothing as his mind tripped and fell and lay on the floor wondering what it could have tripped over.

 She went on, picking up the first jar.  “A man broke into my house.”  She said, almost speaking to the jar.  “He was going to hurt me.  He had duct tape, a gun… but I lucked out.  With my self defense training I got the upper hand and restrained him.”  

 She rolled the jar in her fingers before setting it down and picking up the second.  “This one is his brother.”  She snorted a laugh.  “His sister-in-law came to see me.”  She pushed forward the first jar.  “She figured out something had happened because her abusive husband had changed almost overnight and she put it all together.  She was also in my class, and smart like you.”  She pushed forward the second jar.  “So she introduced me to the sister in law.”  She shook her head sadly.  “Poor thing, looked like a prize fighter… he had beaten her so bad.”  She tapped the lid of the jar, brightening.  “He’s nicer now, and getting nicer by the day, or so I’m told.”

 She pushed forward the third jar.  “This one’s empty.  It’s sort of a place holder in my collection.  I found out about this guy through a series of friends of friends.  He was a human trafficker.  He forced girls into prostitution.  He was the first I used my special herbal remedies on.”  Her face hinted of pride as she thought.  “Grown in my garden and distilled in my basement, my little magic potion drugged him up so I was able to get a band on him.  It’s a very strong, very tight, rubber band that cuts off all the blood flow to the testicles.  After a couple hours the testicles are unsalvageable.  I stayed with him for several hours after to be sure.  My potion not only dopes him up, but it messes with his memory so he woke up with no idea what happened and a black ball sack with dead balls.”  She smiled gently.  “I hope he went to the ER.”  She nodded.  “I’m sure he did.”  She shrugged.  “Or maybe not.”

 She regarded him, watching for some reaction, but he only watched her numbly, unable to process what she was saying.  

 “This guy was a college.”  She pushed forward the last jar.  “I discovered he was…” She paused, thinking of a diplomatic term.  “behaving inappropriately with students.”  Her lip sneered with disgust as she set down the jar, unwilling to touch it any more than she had too.  “No need to be ribald.  Let’s not get caught in details, but to say the least, he doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

 She sat back, and her eyes smiled at him as she presented her little collection.  “Do you remember what the kids used to call me back in the day?  The Ball Thief.”  Her hand fanned across the table.  “How prophetic.”

 He looked at the jars.  He felt a touch of delight that she trusted him enough to share her secret.  What she had done was illegal, albeit justified; but she trusted him enough to disclose her superhero secret identity.

 He nodded.  “Thank you for telling me.”  He finally said.

 She watched him for a moment, then slid forward and touched his hands.  “I have one more thing.”  She rose, and returned the jars to the shelf.  She then opened a cupboard and retrieved a fifth jar.  “I made this last month.”  She set it before him.  “I wasn’t quite sure why I made it, or why I glazed it in these colors and pattern.”  She admired it.  “Sometimes art is that way.”  She looked up at him.  “I also think it’s my best work.”

 He smiled simply as he admired the squat, little jar.  “Yes, I think so.”  He noticed the lid had not been sealed in wax.  He looked at her curiously, then slowly lifted the lid.

 It was empty.

 “I think I know why I made this now.”  She said warmly, and held his hands as they held the jar.  “I made it for you.”

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The Dark

By DX

Copyrighted, 6/2003, all rights reserved.

Story may not be reproduced electronically or otherwise without author's written consent.

A man wakes and discovers he's locked in a bondage chair, in a vault, with no light or sound. Everyday he is milked for his seed by his tormentor and angel.  He doesn't know why. Worse, she demands he do better, or face a more horrible, unknown fate.
Can he escape? Erotic horror!
bodymod, male hucow, penectomy, milking, bondage, torture!

"In the dark I had no concept of the passage of time. It was maddening. Strapped in the chair unable to move a muscle, I could only wait until she came, my torturer. 

“Most men wouldn't think of it as torture. Most men would enjoy having this ravaging beauty with soft, delicate hands and gentle enchanting voice to visit them. For me, it only added to my feeling of helplessness. My despair.

"I was a normal guy, living a normal life, when they came to my apartment, took me down with stun-guns and chloroform and carted me off to the dark. I was scrubbed raw with antiseptic, pasted with electric pads and sensors, sealed in a thick, latex cat-suit and strapped into the chair. It was more of a frame than chair, really. Straps around my ankles, below and above my knees, thighs, across my stomach, my chest, my wrists, forearms, biceps, neck and forehead. If that weren't enough, there were straps over my shoulders attached to the strap across my chest. My head was sealed in a latex helmet, my breathing channeled through long rubber hoses snaking off behind my head somewhere. My view of the world, such as it was, was through two tiny goggles. My mouth was packed with a fat, spongy ball with a tube that on a timed schedule force fed me a disgusting soup that kept me hydrated and nutritioned.

"Only my manhood was exposed. It hung in the empty space where the chair seat should be. My legs were secured wide apart leaving me completely exposed. My wastes were only liquid and simply went down the drain set up just for that. I would sometimes pee just so I could have its tinkling sound to entertain me.

"My muscles twitched to the electric pad's eclectic rhythm that kept my limbs from atrophy. Their pain was random so I never became accustomed to it, and although the current was slight, when there is no other sensory input, its tiny pin pricks soon grew from a mere annoyance, to excruciating.

"Only darkness, pain and discomfort. 

“It became my horrible existence. I desperately willed myself to die. 

“I could not. I could only sit, and wait.

"For her.

"Once a day, perhaps ten times a day, I don't know, she came. Light filled my tiny chamber as she swung open the heavy steel door. I was in a tiny room, just big enough for my chair; grey, concrete walls and floor with a steel vaulted door— as if I could escape the chair.

“When my eyes adjusted to the light and I could see, she would be there, smiling, her eyes filled with stars, her cheeks adorned with dimples. Her lips, soft, sweet succulent lips, cooing and purring for me, so happy to see me. She always wore blood red glistening lipstick, to match her blood red glistening latex body suit and her amazingly tight, breath stealing corset. She walked easily on her arch breaking high heeled leather ballet shoes.

"Her hair, like black wet tar, was pulled back tightly against her head and spewed from the top of her head in a long single braid that almost touched the ground. Her long lashes slowly fanned her sapphire eyes; sharp, wintery eyes that could cut through flesh, down to the bone with only a glance.

"'How are we?' She would ask. Her voice like cough syrup, sweet, a little fruity, and a lingering bite that bubbled within you. She would fuss over me as she checked my hoses and tubes, leaning her breasts so close, I could imagine her perfume. Her glacier eyes peering deep into mine, making sure she had my complete attention. It was then she brought in her milking stool and set it before me. She would settle herself before me, and with a ruler and calipers, carefully measure my cock and balls, noting it carefully in her little diary.

"Once this was done, she'd look up, her eyes peering devilishly from behind her fan of lashes as she poured the lubricant into her rubber gloved hands.

"Soft as a whisper, so slight, so gentle and sensation deprived as I was, it was like a lighting strike. She would shush my grunts, and moan sensually, as if she could feel my wonderful passion as she worked me in her hands. I could feel my soul draining into her touch, building to her oh so delectable, feathery strokes. Just the tips of her fingers, tantalizing, tempting, teasing, taking forever to do the job. Letting the wave grow.

"Eternity passes and I am frothing, my eyes threatening to fall back into my head, shivering, shuddering, thrashing into my unyielding fetters before she smiles and lets the tsunami hit. 'Oooo! What a good boy!' She says as she catches my fluids in a beaker, teasing every last drop. She holds it up and checks its level, color, texture, then after she notes it in her log, corks the bottle and puts it into her little carrier. There are others, I guess, somewhere. She never mentions them, or anyone, for that matter. As if she and I are the last people on Earth. Assuming I am still on Earth. But I know that I am not her only client, her only prisoner.

"I can only watch helplessly as she packs up her stuff, blows me a kiss, then leaves, closing the heavy door behind her, throwing me back into darkness. After she throws the many locks, properly securing my prison, there is only silence.

"And waiting until she returns.

"How much time passes, how many times we have done this, I don't know. Months, years? But after uncountable sessions, she looks up to me with disappointed eyes. 'You're going to have to do better.' She blows me a kiss and leaves me in the dark. Do better? What that means, I have no idea. On subsequent visits, she smiles sadly, looking at my offering in her beaker. 'You have to let yourself go, let the medicine work.' Something in the soup they pump into me I guess. 'If you don't pick up, you'll be...' She seems truly frightened, glancing around, whispering as if someone will hear. 'You'll be re-assigned.'"

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Copyrighted 6/2003, 12/2023, all rights reserved.

Girl

By DX

Copyrighted 7/2015 11/2023

All rights reserved, Story may not be reproduced without written permission.

 When I was a boy, I dreamed of the day that I was twelve and my life would begin.  A twelve year old can climb high trees and build forts in the branches with a sign forbidding girls entry.  When I was twelve, I wanted to be fifteen so I could ride my bike anywhere my legs could peddle.  Libraries and ball fields would be open to me and then my life would begin.  When I was fifteen, I wanted to be twenty-one because then I would be a man.  I would change the oil in the car, curse, drink lite beer and find a wife to settle down with.  When I was twenty-one, my life would begin.

 When I was twenty-four it ended.  My wife, pretty and wild, turned into a psychopath and when our marriage collapsed into screaming fights she proved that she was a true harpy, befouling what she couldn't consume.  To say it was a messy divorce was a gross understatement.

 I had to abandon everything in my life and myself to be rid of her and I found shelter on the couch of my old college buddy.  He was a rampant, unrepentant homosexual who constantly cruised for tail and thought mine was a prize to be bagged, stuffed and mounted on the wall. 

 After my divorce, I sought identity and was willing to try anything.  Though I never thought of myself as gay, and even thought the act repulsive, I found myself watching my roommate parade around the tiny apartment naked, his cock flopping around like a miniature elephant’s trunk.  

 He saw me watching and stuck it in my face and demanded I suck him off.  I think he was more surprised than I was when I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.  I was clumsy, but he gently coached me and with a little work, I accomplished the goal.  

 I became his Boy and he my Man.  I would return to a simpler stage of my life.  I was his to play with.  My sexuality was none of his concern.  I was just his cum puppet, my mouth, my ass, my hands, served to his insatiable sexual habit.  When I wasn’t sucking him I was sucking his friends, both men and women.  

 I was the Boy.

 It was his impetuousness that made him one day to decide to ‘Nut’ me, castrate me, to show that it was all about his cock.

 And I was okay with it.  

 Yeah, divorce messed me up that much, but I was also into my new role as a servant, an object, with no obligations other than making my Man quiver.  I still didn’t consider myself gay and I felt uncomfortable kissing a guy, but I thought nothing of feeling his cock slide back across my tongue and the hot splash of cum flooding my mouth.

 He brought over a woman who I only knew as Helen, and after she milked my manhood for the last time, asked me if I still wanted to be a Boy.

 I said yes.

 She removed my cock and balls and moved my urethra down between my legs to make peeing easier.  I was then less than an eunuch.  I was an androgyny.  A sexless being.  A nullo.  I would be incapable of having an orgasm ever again.

 A Boy.

 And that was where my story ended, where my life began, or so I thought.

 Without the flow of testosterone I lost body hair.  I also lost bone density.  I was calmer, easier going and happy.  However as more testosterone drained from me, I became lethargic, to the point that I didn’t get out of bed for days if I didn’t have too.  I struggled with weight and soon didn’t care.  My Man would come home and I would only roll over and offer him my ass.  It was easier.  I didn’t like anal as it made me sore but getting him off was too much effort.  There had been something in the act of taking my Man in my hands, my mouth, making him squirm, controlling his sex, his orgasm, that gave me a thrill.  It was the paradox of submission.  I was in control.    

 And depression set in.

 I didn’t regret becoming a Boy and I didn’t long for my manhood back, in fact it was just the opposite, but I just had no will to function as a person, as a Boy, as anything.  

 I was nothing.  A blob.

 I finally went to a doctor, mumbling a lie that I had picked up a parasite in South America and there was a botched surgery that took my genitals to explain my current state.  To my surprise he believed it, or didn’t care enough to try to see through it.  He just prescribed the logical cure.

 Testosterone.

 Being off it for so long it hit me like a storm and I suddenly became a wild animal.  I wanted to hump everything, anything.  I became aggressive, even scaring my Man when I tied him down and fisted his ass up to my elbow.

 I hated how I felt.  I was now a bad Boy, a juvenile.  I was angry and grinding my teeth, pacing, argumentative and quick to sparks of anger. 

 Worst of all, I was outrageously horny.

 My Man gave me a prostate toy and I tried using that to get off, but Helen had been thorough, and it only left me hornier and frustrated.  It was an inner torment I had not expected, but it did give me back my energy.  On steak and blow job day, I sat him down with a porterhouse and while he dined I was under the table, licking and going down on his cock, working it until he shuddered, his legs twitching, and I savored the distinct taste of his cum on the back of my tongue, a unique buttery liquorish.  I left him there, twitching, pooling into goo while I took another steak down to our landlord.  He’s a sixty something year old widower, and like me, didn’t think of himself as homosexual, but after forty years of marriage he found himself alone.  He enjoyed the company I brought him.  He also gave us an extension on the rent and sometimes even skipped a month.  I fed him his steak, then lay him out on the couch as he likes.  There, I undress him, cover his eyes with a cloth, then press my hand against his stirring cock, gently sliding my fingers across until he’s hard.  I put on some music, taking my time, just sliding two fingers up and down his shaft until his pre-seminal fluid begins to flow and then use that to get him slick.  When he begins to twitch, I lean forward and suckle him.

 I was back to being a Boy again, but I had to struggle with my dark half, my juvenile delinquent part.  The testosterone made me snippy and confrontational and I partially blame it for the next change in my life.

 My Man and I had a spat.

 “Fuck you, you fucking faggot!”  He shouted at me.  He frequently said that but this time he was really pissed.  “You are not going to tell me who I can fuck!”

 That was the argument.  We’re were not monogamous, I didn’t expect him to be, but we still had to be careful in a world full of dangers, and with his impetuousness it was quickly becoming a concern.

 “I’m not telling you who to fuck.”  I said gently through terse lips.  “I’m just asking,”  I stressed the word, ‘asking’.  “for you not to fuck two people out of everyone on the planet.  George and Hilderbrand.”  

 George was an addict and sucked people in the subway bathrooms for crack.  I was sure he was carrying some disease.  Hilderbrand was a married man who came down to the island a few nights out of the year and lets out his gay side.  He has herpes but claims he would never have sex during a breakout.  I know that he would never pass up the chance to have sex, break out or not.

 My Man was furious.  “Fuck you, Boy.  I’m not calling you to get your permission when I want to fuck.  I tell you who to fuck!”

 “I’m just asking you to be considerate.”  I was getting heated, raising my voice.  “It’s just a suggestion.  I don’t want you to bring home something they can’t cure.”

 “Fuck your suggestion!  You ain’t telling me shit.”  He screamed, grabbing his jacket.  “I’m the Man!  I do what I want!” 

 I saw the event spiraling out of control.  I was pissed, he was pissed, so I did the Boy thing and relented.  “Okay, I’m sorry, I was wrong.  Please, don’t go out mad.  Stay home and fuck my ass, okay?”  But he was beyond listening and heading for the door.  “At least don’t go and suck off George because you’re pissed at me!”  

 He slammed the door rattling the china.  

 I slumped to the floor and cried like a little boy.  Tears and snot rolled down my chin as I whinned and sobbed, the whole deal.  I knew he was going to find George and I was furious.  It was his nature, but it was not only self-destructive, it would destroy me too.  

 As my tears dried, I decided that if he didn’t care enough about me then he could go fuck himself.  I packed up my few possessions and brought them to the basement for storage.  Then armed with my suit-bag and knap sack I headed out.  My landlord knew of a room for rent not far from where I worked and he called over there for me to set up a same day interview.

 It was a beautiful Victorian house and the room in question had its own entrance.  It was a quaint apartment with its own kitchen and bathroom and a spiral stair that lead up to a bedroom.  Excited, I headed over and met with the owner in the driveway.  

 She was a handsome woman with tits that I thought were party balloons under her sweatshirt and my testosterone driven system would not let me look elsewhere.  She had beguiling eyes that twinkled with mirth at my lapdog attention to her endowment.  She turned to point something out, inadvertently brushing herself against me as she did.  “Pardon, me.”  She purred and I swear I nearly had a spontaneous nose bleed.

 As she was showing me around, I detected the distinct odor of latex each time she came close, which she saw to it was often.  I mentioned it and she played it off that it was the clinic she ran out of the basement of the house.  She called it the wellness center and asked if I had a latex allergy.  I told her not at all.  She then nodded, smiled and pulled off her sweatshirt.  

 I could not take my eyes off of her amazing breasts, giggling to one another beneath white latex.  She wore a rubber corset that clenched her flat stomach and gave lift to her wonderful boobs.  It was then I gasped, “I’ll take the room.”  We didn’t even haggle over the rent.

 She led me downstairs to her clinic and I marveled at the equipment.  It was a state certified colonic irrigation center with automatic cleansing machines.  She had just finished an appointment when I came over.  “Some of my customers like a little, costume play.”  She giggled.  “As do I.” She said draping a white sheet across the exam table.  “Have you heard about the benefits of a colonic?”  She turned and handed me a brochure.  “We have some homeopathic recipes that are quite rejuvenating.”

 As I took note of the brochure, she was turning equipment on.  She then patted the table.  “You can get undressed behind the curtain and put on a bathrobe.”  She read my sudden apprehension and gave a sly smile.  “If you’re going to live here, you should know what goes on here.  The first cleansing is on the house.”

 I stammered, never having to explain my situation before.  “You should know that I made a, uh, life choice.”

 “It’s just an enema.”  She winked, “It’s good for you.”

 “I know, it’s just that, well, you’ll see.”  I disrobed right there.  “You see, I’m, well, it’s complicated, but let’s say, I’m a Boy.”

 Her brows rose in surprise.  “Wow,”  She whispered softly.  “That is interesting.”  She patted the table.  “Tell me all about it.”

 I told her my story as my bowels flooded with her special brew.  After my irrigation I felt amazingly good.  She took me upstairs for a bit of tea and I returned her kindness.  She preferred being fingered while her massive teats were suckled.  She screamed like a banshee as she came.

 I didn’t know it then, but she was to be my Aunt, and my life was to begin again.

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