And who says history is just one long session of torture and burning women as witches because they have a wart on the end of their nose?

(Answer - Rowan Atkinson as the Black Adder)

As I've been writing the Aurora series, I remembered back to some great "period piece" testicle torture stories I've read. In particular, M. Hammer's My Punishment and My Public Nutting come to mind because they put BB and TT into a believable historical context.

The idea of being naked in front of a bunch of strangers, knowing your testicles are about to be removed entirely for their entertainment is a very sexy idea. Knowing that the assembled rabble just wants to see a good nutting, and not caring a whit about you - just your humiliating sacrifice for them, seems very erotic to me.

Although I generally don't like cutting stories, Rob Cole's Biology Class is a perfect example of this. A young teenager, in a classroom, forced to strip in front of the other girls and boys and sit with his legs wide open while the teacher pokes and prods his nuts and rigid dick by way of anatomical description. Then he's forced to cum for the class's amusement after which the teacher bloodlessly dissects the whole lot so that the boy's classmates can handle what were, seconds before, his most intimate parts. The ultimate humiliating sexual situation. Total exposure for a period of life when being embarrassed is worse than death. Very cool.

And what occurs to me is that historically, public castrations should be true. Public executions were the norm, and public torture sessions were also common. If it was a man, then surely the nuts would be the most interesting and sexy thing to torture and remove. I'm sure torturers naturally pandered to their audience just as any showman would, and what better thing to do than humiliate a man than by slowly ruining his manhood before moving on to more traditional tortures? I do know for sure that the genitals were at least sometimes an important focus - I remember reading about witches and potions and how a hanged/condemned man's semen was considered to be a potent reagent in medicinal brews; something naturally collected from execution sites or prisons.

Sadly, most of the sites that I've investigated about historical testicle torture are pretty sparse on details, but I suppose that's to be expected. And, although I've read treatises on historical torture, I've never come across an academic work that solely focuses on genital torture. More's the pity, as one can never have too much inspiration.

Of course, testicle torture is the more extreme aspect of ball busting, and it's not for the faint-hearted. Some people love it, some people shy away from it, and for me, the line blurs back and forth, really. But I don't seem to ever get enough of these kinds of stories because they exalt humiliation and exposure - two of the core elements that make up the BB fetish. mmm. So good.

Anywho, just a personal commentary about the merging of present literature and historical practices. Carry on!

n.

Order! At all costs!!!

I've decided to revive the old classification system of who's crushing whose nuts so that people can go right to the gender preference they like.

I've gone back through all my posts and added the designations. Large F's and M's indicated adults, small f's and m's indicated younger folk. The people before the slash are doing the busting, the people after the slash are the victim(s) (willing or unwilling).

Hope it's a bit of an improvement. Feedback is appreciated.

n.

(FFF/MMm) " . . . sail on, sail on, sail on and on . . . "

Okies, so here's the next chapter in the adventures of the Aurora. Not sure what the lesbian theme is all about, but I'm just gonna go with it. As always . . . enjoy!!!!!!

n.

Overboard: The French Connection

Captain Kesha raised her sword high. “FIRE” she said in a bellow, slashing downward with the saber. The cannons below the port side launched a volley of deadly steel balls into the side of the already listing French galley. Despite its superior maneuverability, the enemy ship simply couldn’t stand up to the Aurora’s firepower.

In less than ten minutes after the ships had engaged, the Le Beau Coq was sinking rapidly in the foamy brine, and most of her crew seemed to be going down with it. Kesha let a full half hour pass before she sent out a rescue crew, and what they brought back were two lieutenants and a cabin boy. They were put in manacles and hauled before the Captain and her First Mate, Anwen.

Kesha looked down at the two sniveling frenchies and said softly. “Dit moi, mes petite hommes, où est la flotte principal?”

The two French officers, just looked away and hardened their jaws. Kesha bent down and put one elegant finger to the younger officer’s chin and coaxed him to look at her. His clear brown eyes met her sapphire blue ones with a mixture of defiance, fear and just a hint of attraction. ‘The French, always ready for a good shag,’ thought Kesha to herself.

“Tell me,” she said in English, “Or I’ll make you beg for death.” The young man hesitated for a moment and then spit rudely right into the Captain’s face. Anwen punched him in the side of the head, knocking both him and the other officer over on their side, while Kesha just calmly stood up and wiped the spittle from her face. She moved over to the older male. Once more she said, “Dit moi,” in a whisper

“Jamais!” was his indignant cry. Anwen stepped in and punched the man right in the nose. It broke with a satisfying crack, and Anwen smiled grimly as his head dropped in pain.

“Well ladies,” Kesha said, addressing her crew, “These two French pigs won’t give us any intelligence about the French fleet, so I think . . . it’s time we show them some martial hospitality.”

All the women cheered. Kesha pointed to Vivian. “Take the boy down to my cabin, and get these two lavettes naked.” The massed female sailors eagerly dragged the two struggling men to the main deck and sliced off their uniforms with gutting knives. Strips of thick cotton came off their bodies in ragged chunks until the two men were exposed to the elements. Both had the lean muscular bodies of the aristocracy, tempered from a life of fencing and military campaigns. One seemed to be about 24, the other probably in his late teens. Several women bent down to hold their legs open so Kesha could get a look at what was between them. Everyone knew their brave and beautiful Captain liked to examine a prisoner’s package before she had it destroyed.

Kesha stood between the younger boy’s outstretched legs and lightly chucked his cock and balls with her Wellingtons. He twitched slightly at the contact, but also became slightly aroused, his French dick growing halfway to lay against his thigh. Kesha smiled. The young officer actually seemed somewhat hypnotized by the fluttering tassels on her jacket and her tri-corner hat. Kesha moved to the older prisoner. He just seemed defiant.

Kesha’s cold blue eyes met his cold black ones, and he stared at her with abject hatred. A slight sneer played across his lips, so Kesha placed her boot over his testicles and crushed them into the deck. His sneer wavered and a piglet–like squeal escaped his lips. All the women laughed uproaresly at this. The Captain made him squeal for full three minutes, her boot grinding his manhood mercilessly, just to wound his pride, and then she suddenly turned and walked away. She was going to enjoy watching the punishment.

Anwen rallied her crew. “Okay girls. For this young stud here, we’re going to warm him up with some loving and pumping. Which of you lovely ladies would like to take him to heaven, before we send him to hell?”

Several of the older women in the crew shouted “AYE”, and stepped forward. The three voluptuous females picked him up and tied him down to a workbench. Then they began to lick every part of his body while a fourth girl squeezed his ballbag as hard as she could. He was both aroused and tortured by this. His youthful French instinct was to enjoy it all, even the pain, but the officer in him knew this was leading somewhere bad. The sailorette squeezing his nuts began to grind them together, and he let out a long, throaty, open vocalization of youthful surprise and agony.

The older officer watched all this, and wondered what was in store for him. He was enlightened in short order. Anwen had noticed he already had a big droopy scrotum and decided they should accentuate that quality. He was raised to standing, then one of the younger girls tied a rope around his torso and a bunch of them hoisted him until he could just barely stand on his tip-toes. Then another rope was slipped over his ballbag and a heavy pail was hung from it.

Naturally an empty bucket deserves something in it, and the women began pouring sugar into it. The bucket became heavier and heavier and the officer’s face began to sag almost as much as his two testicles. His two average size nuts were now being crushed and pulled by the weight of the bucket, and all the women could see the spermatic cords stretched taut. Several of them clapped gleefully.

When the sugar had filled most of the bucket, Anwen uncorked a bottle of rum and poured it on the sugar. Then, she took out a match and slowly held it up to the officer’s face so he could grasp the full enormity of the situation. His eyes grew to the size of a ha’penny. Anwen smiled. She causally flicked the match along the side of her knee-high boots, causing it to flair to life and then just dropped it into the bucket. The alcohol saturated sugar burst into a fireball of blue flame. The man’s whole bush caught on fire and evaporated, and then, as the fire dimmed slightly from its initial explosion, began to roast his nuts over a blistering fire, while it still pulled his scrotum closer and closer towards his knees.

Meanwhile, the young blond lieutenant was in the throws of terrifying ecstasy. One girl was kissing him and sucking on his tongue, another was fellating him, his long prick sliding down her throat, a third was sucking on his toes and the delicate arches of his feet, and the last was methodically smashing her fist into his testicles. Hard punches, solid punches, like you might see a father give a son who’d just shamed the family name, or the type a sensei might give to an elite student to teach him the ultimate discipline. You could hear the noise it made all the way on the other side of the deck. SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT.

Kesha was watching all this with delight, and had taken out a map-tube, made of rounded metal and used to keep maps from getting wet, and shoved it into her vagina. She let it slowly slide up inside her and then allowed the rocking motion of the waves to stimulate her cave of wonders . Little chills of ecstasy traveled up her spine; this was the part of war Kesha liked best.

The women torturing the young man were so skilled at the pleasure and pain mixture that they could keep him just at the verge of cumming but never quite able to release. The older officer, in the meantime was starting to beg for mercy, or death, which ever would be quicker. His marbles now hung at his knees and the heat from the pail was steaming them like clams. It was excruciating, and he was writhing all over, trying to escape his restraints.

Kesha was starting to get bored. “Anwen!” she ordered. The First Officer knew this meant it was time to step it up the pace and finish the job. The pail was removed and the officer was allowed to collapse in a heap on the deck, while the younger officer was yanked off the bench. All the women were waiting with baited breath to see how their Captain was going to emasculate their prisoners.

Kesha whispered her order into Anwen’s ear. The young redhead smiled grimly at what she heard. This was going to fun. From the lower decks a special stockade was brought out, one with a large hole at the top for his head, and two small ones at crotch level. Meanwhile, one of the more nimble girls climbed to the top of the mast, just shy of the crow’s nest and let down two ropes that looped over a pulley attached to a swinging arm.

Into the stockade went the younger man. On the facing side of the stockade his head and balls were pulled into view while the rest of him was behind the wood, his hands tied behind his back. Each testicle had its own hole, and they each stood out clearly; two delicate pink orbs jutting out proudly against mahogany colored wood.

The two dangling ropes, meanwhile, were lowered to where the older lieutenant was laying, and the first was tied around his cock and balls. The other rope was tied to his ankles. Five women, each, grabbed a rope and stayed at the ready to pull them . . . hard.

First to go was the younger man. Anwen stepped in front of him and gave a small speech. “These two officers of the French Navy, lapdogs to that heinous dictator Napoleon Bonaparte, are found guilty of war crimes of the utmost moment. As evil traitors to the cause of liberty and justice, they shall be condemned to emasculation followed by death.” She turned to the young blond.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, pig?”

Somehow the lieutenant knew what she was saying, perhaps by formality of it, or by the tone of her voice, and he looked around at all the women in desperation. They clearly were looking forward to his demise, and they were all so beautiful – supple, toned bodies, rosy cheeks, heaving breasts and shapely legs. Then, he simply lowered his brown eyes, and shook his head. He resigned himself to his fate. He then squeezed his pelvis against the back of the stockade so that his balls stuck out as far as possible. Whatever they were going to do to his manhood, he wanted them to really enjoy it. How many other men could give sexual pleasure to this many women at once?

“Bring up the paddle!” said Anwen. A buxom young crew member bounced up the stairs and onto the main deck, carrying a large wooden paddle. It was stained a gruesome beige, and it took no imagination on the lieutenant’s part to understand its purpose. He simply accepted it, and closed his eyes in anticipation. They could have his balls. All of them could have all of him, even his manhood.

Anwen scanned her crew. “Lucy! You’ve been merited the most this voyage. It’s your turn to bollock this prisoner.” Anwen took the paddle from the girl, and gave it to Lucy, who stepped forward. Lucy was about 24, long black hair, voluptuous as hell, and walked with a sexy slink. She was wearing a low cut dress that was slit up one side, allowing her brown thighs to show. She gladly took the paddle and stood in front of the young Frenchman. Lucy was known for having excellent aim, so she would probably isolate and smash one ball at time, just to draw out his suffering.

Since the other officer was nearly comatose, and not ready for execution, no one paid attention as he moaned and wriggled on the deck. Instead they were all watching (and rubbing themselves) as Lucy held the paddle up to the light of the sun. Its dull, brown surface looked more deadly to the young lieutenant than any silver sword. Lucy, then held it in front of the young man’s face so he could appreciate how solid and unforgiving it was. Then she aimed . . . and she swung.

SPLAT

The lieutenant’s left testicle exploded against the paddle, splattering it, Lucy, and several of the women nearby with liquid ball. Instead of cheering the women all fingered themselves furiously, and those that had been doused with nut-meat licked it off greedily, savoring its gamey, bacon-like flavor. The lieutenant screamed for at least three minutes straight, and then just let his head loll to the side, drooling slightly.

No rest for the wicked. Lucy grabbed the back of his handsome head and forced it to the paddle. She yelled at him “LICK IT OFF, PIG!”. The officer had no choice, andhe groggily licked the remains of his own baby-maker off. The humiliation of it all made the women cum even harder.

Then Lucy backed up. “Shall we emasculate him totally, girls?’

“YES!!!” was the universal shout.

“What do you say, Frenchy?” asked Lucy, reaching down to flick his remaining ball with her fingers. “Shall I take your last bollock? Are you ready give your manhood up for our pleasure?”

Even now, the boy couldn’t repress his sexual ego. His own penis was now at full mast , and he now pressed it, along with his reamining ball into the back of the stocake. His last tesicle had no place to hide, and he was obviously presenting his manhood to their bestial and sadistic pleasure. It was the last sacrifice he would ever make for a woman, and he would do so with humility. It was the French way.

“Do you want us all to come from taking it, pig?”

The boy was almost comatose, but he managed to croak a heartfelt “Oui.”

Lucy smiled and then raised her paddle again. The young man’s sexy teenage testicle glistened there with sweat and salt water; a man’s perfect jewel, God's perfect vessel for sexuality, procreation, and the core of everyman's passion, just patiently waiting to be destroyed. The sound of hands rubbing between sweet thighs filled the air.

SPLAT

This time the testicle exploded upward, and covered his entire face with spermy ooze. All he could do was moan softly. The pain he was experiencing was too much for his brain to even process. All the women had yet more orgasms, some falling on the deck in writhing pleasure while others just falling to their knees, cunt juices dripping onto the deck. Lucy stood there with a satisfied look on her face, the paddle thrown over one shoulder, and surveyed her handwork. Fresh testicles usually tasted rather good, and so she bent down to give the poor man a last, luxuriant kiss on the lips, letting her lips and supple tongue lick the raw sperm off of them, and then she pushed the ooze into his own mouth, so that he could savor the rarest and most masochistic morsel ever invented. That kiss was sexy and cruel in the extreme.

When it was clear the lieutenant had passed out, and was of no further use (or source of pleasure) to them, he was pulled from the stockade and dumped overboard. He was now the fishs’ problem. But there remained the older soldier to deal with, so the women crowded around his flopping form, anticipating his demise.

Anwen stood up from her own waves of ecstasy and made another announcement. “Girls. It is time for us to show our imperial pride and sing for King and Country. We will raise this flag of triumph so that all of France will know the price of tyranny. Girls . . . “ Anwen nodded to the women holding the ropes, “ . . . hoist him up!” They began to pull, while the rest of the crew sang.

“God save our gracious King, long live our noble King.”

The man was pulled upwards by his feet and then as his back left the deck, he was pulled upwards. The rope around his balls was pulled taught, but did not yet seem to be carrying his weight. Onward they sang.

“Send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, God save the King!”

The women had stopped pleasuring themselves, and put their hearts into it, as they sang with dignity and watched the Frenchman being hoisted into the air. He was twisting and writhing like an escape artist might do to extract himself from a straightjacket, but to no avail. He was helpless . . . and doomed.

Now one of the girls up in the rigging swung the arm that he hung from, so that the man now rocked back and forth over the open ocean.

“O, lord God, arise, scatter our enemies.”

The singing began to build as they all anticipated a finale. A young, agile girl scampered across the arm, and with a sharp knife began to cut the rope that tied his feet up.

"NO, NO, CLEMENCE!" said the leutenant as he realised the end result of this.The rope snapped and fell apart falling into the ocean. His legs swung open, and now the French lieutenant was hanging by nothing but his roasted cock and balls.

“ . . . And make them fall . . . “

Back and forth he swung over the ocean, screaming as the ship pitched to and fro. His cooked nuts were being crushed by his own weight, and it was only few seconds of this before they actually did pop under the pressure. Two partially cooked man glands, pressed into paste. He just kept screaming.

“ . . . GOD SAVE THE KING!!!!!”

His body weight pulled on his scrotum and penis until they were tight as drum strings, and as the last line of verse rang over the ship, the man’s genitals exceeded their load bearing capacity and they separated from his body with a “SNAP”.

The sound was clear and crisp, and Captain Kesha heard it all the way where she was sitting, even above the sound of the waves. The lieutenant’s body fell into the ocean with a splash, and his reproductive organs just swung on the end of the rope, like fish bait waiting to be lower into the water.

Anwen looked up proudly at them. “Let this be a lesson to all oppressors, that we shall emerge victorious as we fight for Britain! God save the King!”

“GOD SAVE THE KING!” was the response.

The Frenchman’s balls were indeed used as bait that night, and another round of succulent fish was eaten by all the crew. After dinner, the Captain retired to her cabin with Anwen in tow. The two sailors made slow, languorous love for several hours, licking and sucking each other off to multiple orgasms each. Slippery nipples were sucked, fists were used to fuck wombs, delicate pink tongues were flicked into moist vaginas and then transferred to eager lips. Wooden dowels were used to probe deeply, and Anwen spent at least thirty minutes with her face buried in her beloved Captain’s tight snatch, reverently imbibing her mentor’s tangy, lubricating juices.

As they lay there in the afterglow of coitus, Anwen gently swirling her tongue around Kesha’s right nipple, while Kesha mused over the day’s events. There was so much she loved about her profession.

“I still think the documents we recovered from the Coq will provide a clue to the fleet’s moments. I want them analyzed as soon as possible.” Kesha looked down at her first mate’s nipple worship. “Are you thirsty, my love?”

“Mmmhmm,” replied Anwen, her lips never detaching from the ripe mound of her Captain’s breast.

The Captain reached above her to a skein full of wine which dangled from something that hung over the bed. It was a pink, fleshy bag, and attached to it was the French cabin boy, folded in two, and tied to the ceiling by his wrists and ankles so that only his balls hung below him, within easy reach of the two women. Anwen’s lips wrapped around the mouth of the wine jug and she suckled in the cooling drink, while Kesha reached up playfully and flicked the young boy's dangling testicles. Each time he twitched in pain. ‘Bollocks are such delicate things, so easy to torture a man with,’ thought Kesha as she flicked the gently swaying glands in their soft pink pouch.

“I’ve always wanted a cabin boy,” mused Kesha out loud. “But what I really want,“ as she slapped them a few times, back and forth, “is a change purse made from a male's nut sack.”

She stopped slapping them and groped the boy’s berry’s. “What should we do with him after we’ve popped his balls and tanned his pouch?” Kesha then started punching them instead, her fist cracking against his juvenile gonads relentlessly. He writhed in pain, but could do nothing to stop her. His humiliation was her amusement. Being fucked by his former captain on the French ship was nothing compared to this, and he was silently wishing he’d been born a girl.

Anwen looked up at the swinging, helpless boy and smiled cruelly, “I say we make him service the crew until his tongue is stripped raw and then sell him into slavery at our next port-of-call. I know a lot of male sailors who’d love to have him. And he can’t ever complain because he can’t speak English!”

Kesha smiled and stopped her punching. Then, she pulled on the boy’s sack to see how far it would stretch, assessing its volume. The scrotum was supple, loose and fairly big for its owner’s age. ‘It will probably be able to hold several ounce’s worth of coins’ she thought.

Kesha re-hung the wing jug from his nuts and then forced Anwen’s head back down to her crotch. “The night is still young, our cabin boy is still fresh, and we have plenty of wine left. Back to work!”

“Aye, Aye, Captain,” was the muffled reply.

Kesha reached up to squeeze the boy’s swelling testes, one in each hand, whilst preparing for the ecstasy that would soon course through her body. Two sources of pleasure were always better than one, after all.

Perhaps it's just me,

but I find something very . . . suggestive about this photo. Dunno why.

The picture was taken from a really fine book called "New Vintage Type" and is a must-read for anyone into typography and the use of fonts in graphic design.

As for some updates - a second chapter to the adventures of the all-female crew of the Aurora is underway, as is a follow-up to Little'bro. Anywho, cheers to you all!!

n.