“Welcome home, cunt--time tah put ya tah rest fer a bit,” he says, grabs you by the mullet and slams your face into the floor hard enough to knock you unconscious. When you wake up, you’re somewhere else--what looks to be a root cellar, likely under the cabin, but it’s been converted into a home made sex dungeon--and you’re strapped to a cross against the earthen wall. Your head is spinning and throbbing--but that’s not the only place that aches--you look down, and see that the massive balls Jack gave you, just before you came, have been bound tight with a series of rubber bands, so tight the skin had nearly turned black in the dim light of the room. You start to panic, trying to get loose from the bonds, but slowly the throbbing stops, and becomes just...numb. Hours after you lose sensation, you hear a trapdoor open and Jack climbs down the ladder. He’s clad in his filthy biker gear--the same gear he’s worn, unwashed, for years. Walks over, chuckling, cigar burning bright in the dark.
“Well cunt--think those are good ‘n gone yet?” he said, then took the cigar, and smashed the lit end into your numb sack. You flinch, but feel nothing at all. “Yeah--pretty dead. Better cut ‘em off yeah fer they start tah rot.”
You stare down at yourself, unable to really process what was happening, “Ya...what did ya do?”
“He takes a short knife from the wall, walks back over, and pummels his fist into your mouth before saying anything, “Thing--ya call me Master, when ya address me, understand?”
A tooth tumbles from your mouth, and you mutter, “Yeah, Master, fergive me Master..”
“Now, as fer what I did, and is doin’,” he said, taking the knife and slitting open the sack, “is nuttin’ ya. No slave a mine is gonna be a man. But ya know the best part, cunt?” he asks, reaching into the slit and pulling out one black ball, and cutting it free, before reaching for the other, “Since ya ain’t never gonna cum no more--guess what? That ointment? It needs a orgasm tah complete the spell. That means ya should git used tah this here life a ours, ‘cause we ain’t never gonna be changin’ back.”
You feel a bit woozy, and barely remember him stitching you back up. When you wake up in a cage, all you have left is your heavily skinned pecker--no sack at all. You thought, in that moment, that things couldn’t get any worse than that, but you underestimated the kind of cruel and uncaring imagination you’d imbued in Jack’s sadistic mind. He ignored you for two weeks, leaving you alone in the cellar. The ointment, as promised, helped your body heal--after a few days, all that remained of your balls was some loose skin and a thick scar--but the chill, the quiet, the solitude...it was all wearing you down. The only thing you had to occupy yourself was eating your own filth, and the bucket.
The bucket was in a corner of the cell, and it was attached to a pipe leading from the shack above. It was obviously connected to the plumbing of the whole shack, because everything flowed into it--piss, shit, dirty water. It was also, apparently, the trash can, as your master’s ash and cigar butts would flow through as well on occasion--and were soon your only source of nicotine. You would sit in the dark until you heard the sound of something in the pipes, and then devour whatever might have appeared out of sheer hunger and thirst. Again, the ointment kept you physically well, but did nothing to sate the desperate needs which you were forced to live with, as you slowly succumbed to madness down in the dark, with only the occasional visit, and violent abuse, from your master to keep you company from now on.