The Dangers of Architecture
Ian McMillan, humble architect of Sinder&Bloc Design, was hunched over at his drafting table, trying to make a “modernist” office cube look interesting. ‘Mebbe some more modular furniture would do it . . . DAMN’, thought Ian as the tracing paper he was scribbling on tore. ‘I bet Gropius never had to deal with substandard paper. The things I have to put up with,’ Ian’s thoughts continued in that vein until was distracted by the sound of someone coming towards him. He adjusted his glasses and squinted. A tall woman was walking towards his desk.
As she got closer he squinted harder. ‘Oh my god,’ he thought. It was the most ravishing woman he’d ever seen. At least 5’10, gorgeous blond hair, expensive, tight business skirt, and stiletto heels. Ian’s drawing hand began to tremble. He dropped the #6 pencil and steadied himself.
The woman stopped and took a seat in front of him. She smiled, her perfect white teeth dazzling him. “Mr. McMillan I’m Teresa Weatherbuilt, Mr. Weatherbuilt’s wife. So nice to meet you!” She proffered a shapely hand, which he shook.
In his peripheral vision, Ian could immediately tell she was a D cup, at least, “Likewise, Mrs. Weatherbuilt. How can I be of service?”
Teresa smirked a bit. “Service. Yes, well that’s exactly what I need at the moment. We have a morning room that we’d like to have expanded, and I was hoping you’d come out and give me your thoughts on it. Today, if possible.” She casually uncrossed and recrossed her legs, making sure Ian heard the susurrus of her silk stockings as they rubbed against each other.
‘I, uh, well. That is to say, I don’t know. I mean, sure!” said Ian. “I’d love to service you, I mean your box, er house. When did you say?” His hands were cold and sweaty now.
“Oh, thank you! Would 4:00 be ok? I know your firm usually doesn’t make house-calls without an appointment, but, well. I’m sure I’ll find some way of repaying you.” The voluptuous woman stood up and gave him her dazzling smile again.
“Yes,” stammered Ian, “It will be my pleasure.”
“Oh damn,” said the wealthy woman, looking down at her breasts in dismay, “They keep popping out.” A few seconds of adjusting her big melons. “Well, that’s lace bra’s for you. See you later!” and turned and sauntered out the door, heels clacking on the polished wooden floor.
Six hours later, Ian was pulling up to the Weatherbuilt mansion, eyeing it with a mixture of trepidation and elation. He stared at the front door for a while. The strong, masculine Roman tablature of the lintel mocked him. Finally he got up the nerve. He stood in front if it, and pushed the doorbell. He waited, box of drawing implements in one hand, sketch book in the other.
After a short while the door opened. There stood Mrs. Weatherbuilt in a see-through lounge robe, a form-hugging, midnight blue silk shift, stiletto heels and fluffy blue socks.
“Why, Mr. McMillan, you’re right on time. Please, do come in.”
Ian shut his gaping mouth, and passed by her. She smelled like spicy flowers.
“Would you care for something to drink?” she asked solicitously. “A beer, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes, uhm. That would be fine,” he replied awkwardly.
“This way,” she said, crooking a finger at him.
In the kitchen. Ian followed her closely, not wanting to get lost. It was a big house. He was right next to her when she stopped in front of a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator. He was a little too close. She opened the door with flourish, and the handle slammed right into Ian’s groin. With both hands full, he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
“Imported or domestic?” said Teresa’s voice from the depths of her appliance, her left hand pushing the door out as she looked.
The hard metal handle was crushing his right testicle against his pelvis. All Ian could do was groan slightly.
“What was that?” asked Teresa, her head popping up. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, eyeing his groin with another smirk.
“Here,” she continued, handing him some lager. “Put this on it, it will help.”
All Ian could do was nod, and whimper slightly.
“Now, let’s go into the morning room and take a look, shall we?”
Clack, clack, clack went her heels on the marble floor. The sound sent chills up Ian's spine.
“Have a seat on the couch. Now I wanted to give you my ideas.”
Ian sat, placed the cold wet beer between his legs, both to sooth his sore balls and to hide his growing erection. Then set his box down and took out a grease-pen and flipped open the sketch pad.
“We thought we could knock out this wall, push back the space about 20 feet, add a solarium and include a side door and room for a breakfast table. What do you think?”
“Well,” said Ian, “it would depend on the shape of the roof at this end of the house, but it doesn’t seem unreas . . .” Ian was cut off in mid sentence as he was writing this all down.
Teresa was staring down at his groin.
“Mr. McMillan! You’re getting water all over my Chippendale!”
Ian stood up quickly. Indeed, there was a big wet spot on his crotch.
“I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs. Weatherbuilt.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem. Let’s just get those things off you. It’s rather warm anyway.” She walked over and unsnapped his buttons, and pulled his pants down. With both hands full of his writing tools, he was once again, unable to stop her. She made him step out of his corduroy pants. Now it was just his three bulges standing out his tighty-whities.
“Mmm. I see things in architecture are looking up,” commented the bouncy blond. “Here sit back down. That’s it. Oh, don’t forget your beer,” picking it up from off the floor. She absentmindedly held it out for him to hold, but his hands were still full. The heavy libation fell directly into his lap and landed on his package, smashing the whole thing, and creating a throbbing ache in his nuts.
“Oh, sorry,” said Teresa, turning away and continuing, “Now about the construction, about how long do you think something like this would take?” She walked back to the middle of the room.
“No problem,” coughed Ian. “Well, *cough, Uhm I’d think a few months. Give or take. But as I said, it would all depend on how the roof is shaped.”
“Oh, well, then lets go take a look!”
“But, Mrs. Weatherbuilt, I’m not fully dressed . . .”
“Oh, that. Don’t worry. It’s just you and I. All the staff are away on holiday, and so is my husband. You don’t mind, do you?” Ian watched her big chest heave as she spoke.
“Uhm, no, of course not.”
“Good!” Teresa marched towards the patio door.
Soon she and the partially undressed Ian were outside in the sun. Teresa walked over the side-wall and took a ladder which she placed against the wall.
“Shall I go up first?” she asked. “I see you’ve got your hands full. Why don’t you stabilize it while I go up a ways and tell you what we have.” Without waiting for an answer, she started climbing the ladder, her stiletto heels dangling off the rungs.
“Come and help,” she called down to him.
What could Ian do? He stepped up onto the ladder and managed to get onto the first rung. He decided the best way of putting his weight on the ladder was to rest against it, and he leaned forward, his cotton clad genitals lay flush against a step that just happened to be level with his groin. He looked up, and could see all the way up his client’s blue silk atrium.
“Yes. It just appears to be a normal cross hipped roof,” said Teresa matter-of-factly. “I don’t think you should have any problem. The gutters are sectional aluminum.”
Ian stared up in amazement, both at the view and her comment. ‘How could she know that . . ?‘ Then he noticed she was coming back down. Before he could launch himself backwards her right foot appeared directly over his ball sack and smashed it into the metal rung. His two jewels squished out from under her deadly shoe.
“Ooooh. This rung is a bit wobbly.”
The other foot back down, and its spiked heel impaled both his dick and his left nut. A yelp escaped Ian’s lips.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still there,” said Teresa as her crotch bumped into Ian’s head. She ground her foot into his ball-bag to regain her own balance and then stepped up one rung, allowing Ian to fall off and clutch his manhood.
“So,” she said happily as she alighted onto the soft grass, “Shall we go back inside, and discuss pricing and materials?” she asked sweetly. “Ooo,” she said looking down at him on all fours, nursing his nads. “I never knew architecture was such a dangerous occupation,” she said with a wicked grin. “Perhaps we should take a look at you. Make sure there isn’t any damage. Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll assess your assets. When you’re ready, of course.”
“Yes, *cough, of course. My pleasure.” Ian tried to collect his writing tools, yet again.
“Good. I think we should also have a look at the room from the inside. If you’d be willing to sit on the piano bench, I could easily tell you what I see through the crawl space.”
Ian groaned, but nodded assent. The chance to look up her dress again was too much to pass up, no matter how painful. She helped him up and then walked off, letting him limp along behind.
Once inside she noticed his hands were once again filled While he stood there, watching her, Teresa nonchalantly pulled off his underwear. Ian’s cock and balls popped out. One testicle was swollen, the other just red, and his dick was swaying happily at its new-found freedom.
Teresa grabbed his balls and roughly squeezed them, presumably testing for ruptures, but actually causing Ian even more pain than before.
“Well, everything seems to be in working order. But, I’m afraid your Hanes have been torn. We should dispose of them. Can’t have respectable architects walking around in torn underwear,” said Teresa looking down at the garment. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” She smiled and took both his underwear and his wet pants (which were still lying on the floor) and put them down a chute which was labeled “Incinerator”. Now he no choice but to help her mostly naked from the waste down.
“There, she said brightly. “All good. Now, if you’ll just get that piano bench, and follow me into the hall, we can take a look at the crawl space.”
Ian was still just staring down at this naked shame. What the hell was he going to do now? No pants, no shorts, how the hell was he going to drive home? He looked up. Teresa just had a mischievous smile, and beckoned him to follow. What could he do? He put down his tools and grabbed the piano bench, and followed her into the hallway.
“Just put it down there,” said Teresa, now looking at the ceiling. Ian could see her full profile, luscious breasts, slim waist, curvaceous hips and supple legs. His naked dick got even harder, and strained against the cold wooden surface of the bench as he lugged it over to where she was standing.
“Excellent,” she said, slipping off her shoes, revealing her soft, light blue socks, “Well, have a seat. If you hold my legs, I’ll be more stable. Oh, and take off your shoes, I don’t want them scratching my marble floor.” Ian reluctantly straddled the bench, letting his balls rest and spread out on its surface, and then slipped off his shoes. Now they were both in socks, her in fluffy blue ones, and him in white cotton ones. He reached out to help her up.
Naturally she stepped straight up onto his testicles, and pressed her ankles deeply into his throbbing dick. She didn’t even apologize this time. Instead, she tucked her slip over his head so that his head was almost between her legs, his nose inches from her snatch. It was dark, and his testicles were in agony, but if his dick was any indication, he was also immensely turned on.
“Well,” she said, peeping up into the crawl space, and shifting her weight back and forth between his two nuts, “I don’t seen any main power conduits running near here. And, I do see a lot of insulation, but it’s not asbestos. It’s Icynene spray foam. The kind with microbubbles.” She began to dig her heels into Ian’s bubbles. In between the effort to hold her steady while she strained to look, and the effort to lesson the pressure on his balls, Ian tried to fathom how she could be so adept at identifying building materials.
“Hold me still, please. Oh, I think that some of the insulation has burst open.” She raised her self onto the balls of her feet to get the highest possible angle, and in doing so pressed his balls to the limit of their structural integrity. An odd keening noise escaped from Ian’s throat, and he tried to stifle the noise by biting the hem of Teresa’s blue satin panties
“Mr. McMillan! How rude of you. I won’t stand for THAT kind of behavior. You need to be taught a lesson.” She placed both her feet on his overripe left testicle and bounced on it. Despite nature’s genius design in making them sperm-producing powerhouses, testicles were not made to support the weight of a grown woman. Ian’s big ball exploded beneath her foot with a loud, wet pop. In the same moment, his penis emitted in a volley of cum that splattered itself all over her legs and socks.
“Oooph” said Teresa. She dropped an inch or two as his gonad gave way. His gooey ball flesh spread out under her blue-clad toes, and he warbled a cry of utter agony.
“Well. Apparently it’s not just real-estate bubbles that can burst.” She smiled cruelly and ground the gooey remains of his ball under her foot. It was so wonderful to experience a few moments of abject power over a weak male who could in no way defend himself.
“We should clear your pipes, I think. Make sure there’s no backflow.” She lifted one foot, putting it over his boner and brought her heel down on it, as well, and then began pounding both parts of his manhood into the bench top. His battered dick leaked out an extra dose of semen all over the smooth wooden surface.
As she made some particularly hard stomps, his penis made a cracking sound as if it ruptured too. Cocks are hard, but not particularly flexible. No doubt mother nature, in her infinite wisdom, had never intended them to be stomped on - except, perhaps, by the occasional irate wife.
“Did you know,” she said pedantically, as she methodically stomped his manhood into mush “that plaque buildup is the number one cause of pipe ruptures in houses? Hmm. Feels like you’ve had a rupture too” Ian gave another warbling cry in the back of his throat, hoping she’d get off his junk and let him curl up in peace.
“Men carry such a burden between their legs,” said Teresa to Ian sympathetically. “You have no say in your reactions to women, do you? It’s sad, really. Perhaps I should relieve you of your other ball and help you conquer your libido . . .” Teresa put the foot she wasn’t using squarely onto his remaining ball. Ian was in no position to stop her.
“Please, no,” croaked Ian.
“But why not? Maybe you’d spurt another fountain of pleasure and have a wonderful orgasm.” Teresa’s blond hair bobbed sexily up and down as she continued to hop on his crotch. Ian couldn’t see any of this, with his head stuffed between her legs, but he felt every bounce, and a line of his drool pooling on the bench right beside the splatters of his cooling cum.
"Oh, very well,” she finally said with a resigned sigh. “I suppose a man needs to keep his dignity . . . once in a while.” Teresa stepped of his manhood, and descended to the floor with an elegant hop. Ian crashed forwards, and lay fully upon the bench, his own weight now resting painfully on his groin. He moaned. He drooled. He wished he was dead. He wish his cock would deflate. He wished is ball was still whole instead of a soupy mess in his scrotum. He wished a lot of things. But strangely, part of him also wished she would burst his other nut.
“Well, Mr. McMillan, I think we’re going to get along fabulously, and I’d like for you to start on some designs straight away. I have a massage appointment in a few minutes, out in the gazebo, and I think I see my masseuse driving up now. So, if you’ll put yourself together and head back to your office, I promise to follow up with you tomorrow. That is, if you’re not still indisposed by your little accident. I so do look forward to working with you, possibly on a day-to-day basis. And,” she said as she reached under him to grasp and pull out his remaining, whole ball, “I still think I could be a big help in overcome your ‘coarser instincts’.” She squeezed his remaining testicle as if trying to crush an apricot in one hand, and loved the cry he made in response. After eliciting a few more cries, she let his delicate testicle drop with a plunk.
"Bye.” She waived, and having put back on her shoes, fuzzy blue socks still covered in his cum, walked down the hall, heels clacking. This left Ian to gather his strength and hobble his way to the door, open it, be in too much pain to care if anyone saw him, and lurched to the safety of his car. Somehow he managed to drive home, through a haze of pain, reach the front door, and collapse into the arms of his roommate Alan, who happen to be an doctor in his internship phase.
“What the hell happened to you? Oh my god! Lay down.”
Alan got out the necessary instruments, and opened up Ian’s sack to remove all the smeared tubes and sheaths that were floating around. He staunched the blood flow, sterilized the whole mess, and then sutured his friend up. Overall, Alan was rather amused at his friend’s predicament.
“So, let me guess,” he said to Ian, “you were gang raped by a bunch of rabid squirrels who mistook your ball for a walnut, and tried to eat it?”
“No,” mumbled Ian. “A client.”
“I see, and he didn’t like the estimate you gave him on installing an arboretum on the roof on his townhouse?”
Ian groaned and mumbled, “Woman.”
“Really, a woman did this to you. I find that hard to believe that. You’re meeker than cloistered nun. Half a man, now eh? Are you up to suing her?”
“No,” he groaned. “Marry her.”
“Oh, so you feel for her, do you.”
“I love her,” and just before Ian passed out, the phone rang, and it was Mrs. Weatherbuilt. Alan went and picked up the phone. “Hello? Yes, yes he’s here. Yes, he does seem to be in a minor state of discomfort. Shall I give him a message? Yes, one moment, Ian, your client wishes to know if you’ll be free again tomorrow. She’s doing a kick boxing class in her back yard, and thought you could come and help. Apparently they need test dummies.”
Alan waited to relay the reply.
Ian looked up at him and the phone with bloodshot eyes. Finally, he croaked, “I’d love to.” and promptly fell into a coma-like sleep.
Alan grinned in to the receiver, “Yes, he said he’d love to help you out. Mmm, well maybe his other ball will last longer than the first one one. Indeed, well, send him back to me if there are any more ‘accident’s’ and I’ll take care of him. Hmmm? Oh yes, I’m an excellent doctor. What kind of complaint do you have? And where is this swelling? I see, well, perhaps I should come to see it, in person. And yes, thank you for asking, I do have two intact testicles and one ginormous dick. Maybe I could show them to you? Well, it’s settled then. See you tomorrow. Cheerio!”
‘What a lovely lady,’ thought Alan to himself.
As she got closer he squinted harder. ‘Oh my god,’ he thought. It was the most ravishing woman he’d ever seen. At least 5’10, gorgeous blond hair, expensive, tight business skirt, and stiletto heels. Ian’s drawing hand began to tremble. He dropped the #6 pencil and steadied himself.
The woman stopped and took a seat in front of him. She smiled, her perfect white teeth dazzling him. “Mr. McMillan I’m Teresa Weatherbuilt, Mr. Weatherbuilt’s wife. So nice to meet you!” She proffered a shapely hand, which he shook.
In his peripheral vision, Ian could immediately tell she was a D cup, at least, “Likewise, Mrs. Weatherbuilt. How can I be of service?”
Teresa smirked a bit. “Service. Yes, well that’s exactly what I need at the moment. We have a morning room that we’d like to have expanded, and I was hoping you’d come out and give me your thoughts on it. Today, if possible.” She casually uncrossed and recrossed her legs, making sure Ian heard the susurrus of her silk stockings as they rubbed against each other.
‘I, uh, well. That is to say, I don’t know. I mean, sure!” said Ian. “I’d love to service you, I mean your box, er house. When did you say?” His hands were cold and sweaty now.
“Oh, thank you! Would 4:00 be ok? I know your firm usually doesn’t make house-calls without an appointment, but, well. I’m sure I’ll find some way of repaying you.” The voluptuous woman stood up and gave him her dazzling smile again.
“Yes,” stammered Ian, “It will be my pleasure.”
“Oh damn,” said the wealthy woman, looking down at her breasts in dismay, “They keep popping out.” A few seconds of adjusting her big melons. “Well, that’s lace bra’s for you. See you later!” and turned and sauntered out the door, heels clacking on the polished wooden floor.
Six hours later, Ian was pulling up to the Weatherbuilt mansion, eyeing it with a mixture of trepidation and elation. He stared at the front door for a while. The strong, masculine Roman tablature of the lintel mocked him. Finally he got up the nerve. He stood in front if it, and pushed the doorbell. He waited, box of drawing implements in one hand, sketch book in the other.
After a short while the door opened. There stood Mrs. Weatherbuilt in a see-through lounge robe, a form-hugging, midnight blue silk shift, stiletto heels and fluffy blue socks.
“Why, Mr. McMillan, you’re right on time. Please, do come in.”
Ian shut his gaping mouth, and passed by her. She smelled like spicy flowers.
“Would you care for something to drink?” she asked solicitously. “A beer, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes, uhm. That would be fine,” he replied awkwardly.
“This way,” she said, crooking a finger at him.
In the kitchen. Ian followed her closely, not wanting to get lost. It was a big house. He was right next to her when she stopped in front of a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator. He was a little too close. She opened the door with flourish, and the handle slammed right into Ian’s groin. With both hands full, he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
“Imported or domestic?” said Teresa’s voice from the depths of her appliance, her left hand pushing the door out as she looked.
The hard metal handle was crushing his right testicle against his pelvis. All Ian could do was groan slightly.
“What was that?” asked Teresa, her head popping up. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, eyeing his groin with another smirk.
“Here,” she continued, handing him some lager. “Put this on it, it will help.”
All Ian could do was nod, and whimper slightly.
“Now, let’s go into the morning room and take a look, shall we?”
Clack, clack, clack went her heels on the marble floor. The sound sent chills up Ian's spine.
“Have a seat on the couch. Now I wanted to give you my ideas.”
Ian sat, placed the cold wet beer between his legs, both to sooth his sore balls and to hide his growing erection. Then set his box down and took out a grease-pen and flipped open the sketch pad.
“We thought we could knock out this wall, push back the space about 20 feet, add a solarium and include a side door and room for a breakfast table. What do you think?”
“Well,” said Ian, “it would depend on the shape of the roof at this end of the house, but it doesn’t seem unreas . . .” Ian was cut off in mid sentence as he was writing this all down.
Teresa was staring down at his groin.
“Mr. McMillan! You’re getting water all over my Chippendale!”
Ian stood up quickly. Indeed, there was a big wet spot on his crotch.
“I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs. Weatherbuilt.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem. Let’s just get those things off you. It’s rather warm anyway.” She walked over and unsnapped his buttons, and pulled his pants down. With both hands full of his writing tools, he was once again, unable to stop her. She made him step out of his corduroy pants. Now it was just his three bulges standing out his tighty-whities.
“Mmm. I see things in architecture are looking up,” commented the bouncy blond. “Here sit back down. That’s it. Oh, don’t forget your beer,” picking it up from off the floor. She absentmindedly held it out for him to hold, but his hands were still full. The heavy libation fell directly into his lap and landed on his package, smashing the whole thing, and creating a throbbing ache in his nuts.
“Oh, sorry,” said Teresa, turning away and continuing, “Now about the construction, about how long do you think something like this would take?” She walked back to the middle of the room.
“No problem,” coughed Ian. “Well, *cough, Uhm I’d think a few months. Give or take. But as I said, it would all depend on how the roof is shaped.”
“Oh, well, then lets go take a look!”
“But, Mrs. Weatherbuilt, I’m not fully dressed . . .”
“Oh, that. Don’t worry. It’s just you and I. All the staff are away on holiday, and so is my husband. You don’t mind, do you?” Ian watched her big chest heave as she spoke.
“Uhm, no, of course not.”
“Good!” Teresa marched towards the patio door.
Soon she and the partially undressed Ian were outside in the sun. Teresa walked over the side-wall and took a ladder which she placed against the wall.
“Shall I go up first?” she asked. “I see you’ve got your hands full. Why don’t you stabilize it while I go up a ways and tell you what we have.” Without waiting for an answer, she started climbing the ladder, her stiletto heels dangling off the rungs.
“Come and help,” she called down to him.
What could Ian do? He stepped up onto the ladder and managed to get onto the first rung. He decided the best way of putting his weight on the ladder was to rest against it, and he leaned forward, his cotton clad genitals lay flush against a step that just happened to be level with his groin. He looked up, and could see all the way up his client’s blue silk atrium.
“Yes. It just appears to be a normal cross hipped roof,” said Teresa matter-of-factly. “I don’t think you should have any problem. The gutters are sectional aluminum.”
Ian stared up in amazement, both at the view and her comment. ‘How could she know that . . ?‘ Then he noticed she was coming back down. Before he could launch himself backwards her right foot appeared directly over his ball sack and smashed it into the metal rung. His two jewels squished out from under her deadly shoe.
“Ooooh. This rung is a bit wobbly.”
The other foot back down, and its spiked heel impaled both his dick and his left nut. A yelp escaped Ian’s lips.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still there,” said Teresa as her crotch bumped into Ian’s head. She ground her foot into his ball-bag to regain her own balance and then stepped up one rung, allowing Ian to fall off and clutch his manhood.
“So,” she said happily as she alighted onto the soft grass, “Shall we go back inside, and discuss pricing and materials?” she asked sweetly. “Ooo,” she said looking down at him on all fours, nursing his nads. “I never knew architecture was such a dangerous occupation,” she said with a wicked grin. “Perhaps we should take a look at you. Make sure there isn’t any damage. Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll assess your assets. When you’re ready, of course.”
“Yes, *cough, of course. My pleasure.” Ian tried to collect his writing tools, yet again.
“Good. I think we should also have a look at the room from the inside. If you’d be willing to sit on the piano bench, I could easily tell you what I see through the crawl space.”
Ian groaned, but nodded assent. The chance to look up her dress again was too much to pass up, no matter how painful. She helped him up and then walked off, letting him limp along behind.
Once inside she noticed his hands were once again filled While he stood there, watching her, Teresa nonchalantly pulled off his underwear. Ian’s cock and balls popped out. One testicle was swollen, the other just red, and his dick was swaying happily at its new-found freedom.
Teresa grabbed his balls and roughly squeezed them, presumably testing for ruptures, but actually causing Ian even more pain than before.
“Well, everything seems to be in working order. But, I’m afraid your Hanes have been torn. We should dispose of them. Can’t have respectable architects walking around in torn underwear,” said Teresa looking down at the garment. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” She smiled and took both his underwear and his wet pants (which were still lying on the floor) and put them down a chute which was labeled “Incinerator”. Now he no choice but to help her mostly naked from the waste down.
“There, she said brightly. “All good. Now, if you’ll just get that piano bench, and follow me into the hall, we can take a look at the crawl space.”
Ian was still just staring down at this naked shame. What the hell was he going to do now? No pants, no shorts, how the hell was he going to drive home? He looked up. Teresa just had a mischievous smile, and beckoned him to follow. What could he do? He put down his tools and grabbed the piano bench, and followed her into the hallway.
“Just put it down there,” said Teresa, now looking at the ceiling. Ian could see her full profile, luscious breasts, slim waist, curvaceous hips and supple legs. His naked dick got even harder, and strained against the cold wooden surface of the bench as he lugged it over to where she was standing.
“Excellent,” she said, slipping off her shoes, revealing her soft, light blue socks, “Well, have a seat. If you hold my legs, I’ll be more stable. Oh, and take off your shoes, I don’t want them scratching my marble floor.” Ian reluctantly straddled the bench, letting his balls rest and spread out on its surface, and then slipped off his shoes. Now they were both in socks, her in fluffy blue ones, and him in white cotton ones. He reached out to help her up.
Naturally she stepped straight up onto his testicles, and pressed her ankles deeply into his throbbing dick. She didn’t even apologize this time. Instead, she tucked her slip over his head so that his head was almost between her legs, his nose inches from her snatch. It was dark, and his testicles were in agony, but if his dick was any indication, he was also immensely turned on.
“Well,” she said, peeping up into the crawl space, and shifting her weight back and forth between his two nuts, “I don’t seen any main power conduits running near here. And, I do see a lot of insulation, but it’s not asbestos. It’s Icynene spray foam. The kind with microbubbles.” She began to dig her heels into Ian’s bubbles. In between the effort to hold her steady while she strained to look, and the effort to lesson the pressure on his balls, Ian tried to fathom how she could be so adept at identifying building materials.
“Hold me still, please. Oh, I think that some of the insulation has burst open.” She raised her self onto the balls of her feet to get the highest possible angle, and in doing so pressed his balls to the limit of their structural integrity. An odd keening noise escaped from Ian’s throat, and he tried to stifle the noise by biting the hem of Teresa’s blue satin panties
“Mr. McMillan! How rude of you. I won’t stand for THAT kind of behavior. You need to be taught a lesson.” She placed both her feet on his overripe left testicle and bounced on it. Despite nature’s genius design in making them sperm-producing powerhouses, testicles were not made to support the weight of a grown woman. Ian’s big ball exploded beneath her foot with a loud, wet pop. In the same moment, his penis emitted in a volley of cum that splattered itself all over her legs and socks.
“Oooph” said Teresa. She dropped an inch or two as his gonad gave way. His gooey ball flesh spread out under her blue-clad toes, and he warbled a cry of utter agony.
“Well. Apparently it’s not just real-estate bubbles that can burst.” She smiled cruelly and ground the gooey remains of his ball under her foot. It was so wonderful to experience a few moments of abject power over a weak male who could in no way defend himself.
“We should clear your pipes, I think. Make sure there’s no backflow.” She lifted one foot, putting it over his boner and brought her heel down on it, as well, and then began pounding both parts of his manhood into the bench top. His battered dick leaked out an extra dose of semen all over the smooth wooden surface.
As she made some particularly hard stomps, his penis made a cracking sound as if it ruptured too. Cocks are hard, but not particularly flexible. No doubt mother nature, in her infinite wisdom, had never intended them to be stomped on - except, perhaps, by the occasional irate wife.
“Did you know,” she said pedantically, as she methodically stomped his manhood into mush “that plaque buildup is the number one cause of pipe ruptures in houses? Hmm. Feels like you’ve had a rupture too” Ian gave another warbling cry in the back of his throat, hoping she’d get off his junk and let him curl up in peace.
“Men carry such a burden between their legs,” said Teresa to Ian sympathetically. “You have no say in your reactions to women, do you? It’s sad, really. Perhaps I should relieve you of your other ball and help you conquer your libido . . .” Teresa put the foot she wasn’t using squarely onto his remaining ball. Ian was in no position to stop her.
“Please, no,” croaked Ian.
“But why not? Maybe you’d spurt another fountain of pleasure and have a wonderful orgasm.” Teresa’s blond hair bobbed sexily up and down as she continued to hop on his crotch. Ian couldn’t see any of this, with his head stuffed between her legs, but he felt every bounce, and a line of his drool pooling on the bench right beside the splatters of his cooling cum.
"Oh, very well,” she finally said with a resigned sigh. “I suppose a man needs to keep his dignity . . . once in a while.” Teresa stepped of his manhood, and descended to the floor with an elegant hop. Ian crashed forwards, and lay fully upon the bench, his own weight now resting painfully on his groin. He moaned. He drooled. He wished he was dead. He wish his cock would deflate. He wished is ball was still whole instead of a soupy mess in his scrotum. He wished a lot of things. But strangely, part of him also wished she would burst his other nut.
“Well, Mr. McMillan, I think we’re going to get along fabulously, and I’d like for you to start on some designs straight away. I have a massage appointment in a few minutes, out in the gazebo, and I think I see my masseuse driving up now. So, if you’ll put yourself together and head back to your office, I promise to follow up with you tomorrow. That is, if you’re not still indisposed by your little accident. I so do look forward to working with you, possibly on a day-to-day basis. And,” she said as she reached under him to grasp and pull out his remaining, whole ball, “I still think I could be a big help in overcome your ‘coarser instincts’.” She squeezed his remaining testicle as if trying to crush an apricot in one hand, and loved the cry he made in response. After eliciting a few more cries, she let his delicate testicle drop with a plunk.
"Bye.” She waived, and having put back on her shoes, fuzzy blue socks still covered in his cum, walked down the hall, heels clacking. This left Ian to gather his strength and hobble his way to the door, open it, be in too much pain to care if anyone saw him, and lurched to the safety of his car. Somehow he managed to drive home, through a haze of pain, reach the front door, and collapse into the arms of his roommate Alan, who happen to be an doctor in his internship phase.
“What the hell happened to you? Oh my god! Lay down.”
Alan got out the necessary instruments, and opened up Ian’s sack to remove all the smeared tubes and sheaths that were floating around. He staunched the blood flow, sterilized the whole mess, and then sutured his friend up. Overall, Alan was rather amused at his friend’s predicament.
“So, let me guess,” he said to Ian, “you were gang raped by a bunch of rabid squirrels who mistook your ball for a walnut, and tried to eat it?”
“No,” mumbled Ian. “A client.”
“I see, and he didn’t like the estimate you gave him on installing an arboretum on the roof on his townhouse?”
Ian groaned and mumbled, “Woman.”
“Really, a woman did this to you. I find that hard to believe that. You’re meeker than cloistered nun. Half a man, now eh? Are you up to suing her?”
“No,” he groaned. “Marry her.”
“Oh, so you feel for her, do you.”
“I love her,” and just before Ian passed out, the phone rang, and it was Mrs. Weatherbuilt. Alan went and picked up the phone. “Hello? Yes, yes he’s here. Yes, he does seem to be in a minor state of discomfort. Shall I give him a message? Yes, one moment, Ian, your client wishes to know if you’ll be free again tomorrow. She’s doing a kick boxing class in her back yard, and thought you could come and help. Apparently they need test dummies.”
Alan waited to relay the reply.
Ian looked up at him and the phone with bloodshot eyes. Finally, he croaked, “I’d love to.” and promptly fell into a coma-like sleep.
Alan grinned in to the receiver, “Yes, he said he’d love to help you out. Mmm, well maybe his other ball will last longer than the first one one. Indeed, well, send him back to me if there are any more ‘accident’s’ and I’ll take care of him. Hmmm? Oh yes, I’m an excellent doctor. What kind of complaint do you have? And where is this swelling? I see, well, perhaps I should come to see it, in person. And yes, thank you for asking, I do have two intact testicles and one ginormous dick. Maybe I could show them to you? Well, it’s settled then. See you tomorrow. Cheerio!”
‘What a lovely lady,’ thought Alan to himself.
Great story! Makes me wish I'd gone into architecture haha
ReplyDeleteThanx. Glad you liked it. I wrote it mostly for Knave.
DeletePlease, I beg you, can you make a sequel to this story? Maybe making him losing his last ball
ReplyDeleteI just simply loved that, one of my favourite stories
lol. I wrote this story so long ago, I don't even remember what it was all about. I do know that I wrote it to get Knave to do a comic of my work, but I don't think he got the message. C'est la vie, I suppose.
DeleteHi Nicholas, if you have free time, i tried to write a sequel for this story, I always loved it and hope you like it.
ReplyDeleteAlso I would be grateful if you could give me some advice, it was so much that I wanted to start writing, and now I can finally, even if being Italian, I make many mistakes.
This is the link in case you are interested: https://popgoesthenut.blogspot.com/2021/06/the-dangers-of-architecture-chapter-2.html?m=1