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Archive name: bouncin.txt (MM, exh)
Authors name: Jimbo Gymtoy (jimbeau2@hotmail.com)
Story title : Bouncin' Bobby

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Bouncin' Bobby
By Jimbo Gymtoy (jimbeau2@hotmail.com)

***

This is the story of a young, exhibitionist, Robert 
Greco known as "Bouncin' Bobby" who finds his true 
calling as a nude dancer in an all-male erotic review. 
But Bobby's not alone in finding erotic satisfaction 
displaying his manly genitals. Other young men with 
similar drives, as well as their distinctive sexual 
appendages are explored in detail in this tale of young 
men driven to parade their bare butts on stage. (MM, 
exh)

***

This cast of characters includes:

Bouncin' Bobby with the Bulgin' Basket (Robert Greco)
Matty, in tight jeans, seated next to,
Oscar, in business suit and dick tenting against cold 
zipper.
Old Man Mainz, of the ballbag to the knees,
Jivin' Jay, African-American in chinos, getting sucked 
off by curly haired blond kid.
Sidney, bank teller, black polished cotton pantss and 
glazed half-moon balls, stoned on grass,
Dick, in Navy blues, pumped tomato balls.
Whopper Wally, dancer with big club dick.





Bouncin' Bobby


Bobby was on next. He gulped air and let it out slowly 
three times. It was a ritual that seemed to ease his 
performance anxieties. The stage ones, anyway. Even 
after three years as a stripper, he still got the 
jitters before going on. He tugged the thin elastic 
cords of his g-string and hefted the weighty pouch, just 
to be sure everything was in place, on line, and A-One.

It was.

Bobby had plenty to worry about. Mainly between his 
legs. Primarily his balls. Since they were too large for 
standard pouches, special dance cups had to be custom 
made and fitted to contain them. His balls were billed 
"the largest organically grown nuts east of the 
Mississippi". A footnote explained organic as 
"unenhanced by vacuum pump or silicone/saline 
injections". Not for vanity, but fact. Besides, it paid 
to advertize.

On the placard out front (the big color one with him in 
gold mesh pouch and thigh-high lame boots) his full 
billing ran, "Bouncin' Bobby with the Bulgin' Basket". 
He dreamed it up early one morning in Vegas, sipping 
chartreuses in Caesar's lounge. 

Earlier that night as he peeled out off the silver 
tights and packed himself into the black and white 
striped Limbo shorts for the umpteenth time, he knew it 
was time to quit backing and start fronting for a 
change. He'd been a showboy, one of six backing Lola 
Falana, for nearly a year. He liked Lola alright, Vegas 
too for that matter, but needed something more. Just for 
himself. It was time to face the music and dance. Center 
stage.

Bulgin' Bobby was born Robert L. Greco in Madison, 
Wisconsin nearly twenty three years back, way back, 
before MTV, cocaine candy, and AIDS. From the time he 
could walk, he wanted to dance. His dad was a professor 
of french poetry at the U of W with expertise in lays 
and his mom was a mezzo in choir and gave solo Lieder 
recitals for charity twice a year. So, having a premier 
danseur aspirant as a son was fine with them. He got 
plenty of encouragement from them both. But there was a 
hitch.

He thought about it as he flicked the elastic band at 
his waist. Absent-mindedly, he rearranged his meat so 
his half-hard dick sat dead center between the cresting 
hillocks of his balls. Silhouette through the flimsy 
translucent yellow fabric, his outsized equipment looked 
cartoonish, a sketch on an obscene pack of matches, 
captioned, "Dream of being a professional artist? Draw 
These Genitals!" 

But Bobby was outlandish and illusory everywhere: from 
his perfect face to his perfect body to his perfect 
dick, down to his great big perfect balls. He was, by 
nature, too blond, too blue-eyed, too muscular and, 
unnaturally, too well hung: a Tom of Finland Dolf 
Lundgren regenerated by a sex fiend. 

He took three more breaths and sighed softly. He was 
nervous as usual and unusually mad. Thinking about his 
youth always ticked him off. He tried an Ann-Margaret 
trick to free the tension by shaking his limp arms at 
his sides while jiggling his splayed fingers. It did 
nothing for his nerves but plenty to his crotch. His 
basket quivered like an erotic jello mold.

As his tethered testicles wobbled and quaked, an old 
anger stirred his senses. Since "The Nutcracker" (ironic 
name) matinee he'd seen as a little kid of five, Robert 
wanted a career in classical ballet. Along with parental 
encouragement, he had the grace, talent and discipline 
to realize his dream. He was bright enough to learn the 
difficult technique and quick enough to catch on to the 
style. But from lesson one to lesson last, all he heard 
from every teacher and adviser was the same old shit. 

The most vivid memory was of Andre Pillage, his last 
classical dancing coach. It was after class on a day 
when the steampipe burst, the studio mirrors sweated 
ice, and a record blizzard crippled even the main roads. 
Robert was just six days short of his sixteenth 
birthday. He thought the teacher wanted to see him after 
class to tell him he'd get to dance the Bluebird in 
recital as a birthday gift. He'd been begging for it 
since his fifteenth. But the private meeting wasn't 
about Tchaikowski.

Monsieur Pillage was a living cliche. In class he was a 
titan, on the street, merely a mincing old faggot with 
plucked eyebrows and an exaggerated french accent. But 
even at sixty, he could leap with the ease of a leaf on 
a breeze.

As he spoke to Robert, he sweated a lot and daubed his 
brow and upper lip with a Hermes scarf that, alternating 
with a dozen others, always sat draped unknotted over 
his shoulders. He tried to keep eye contact with the 
youth, but often, despite his better judgement, his gaze 
ran down to the massive mound and loitered there as he 
babbled.

"Row-bair, mon Row-bair, you are, sans doubt, a mare-
velous danceur. Extraordinary vraiment. Wiz a natural, 
inherent feel for the grand manneur. But, well, we've 
'ad say-vay-rahl objections to...Allors, that ees, 
surely you are aware that... Row-bair, ees extremely 
difficile to put zees delicately, but... eh bien, 
frankly, you're a little too come se dire..."well 
endowed" to be wearing the cos-toom of ze danceur. 

"Zat ees, well, your... zhenital mound ees, how you say, 
deestracting at best and, at worst, frankly ees off-en-
seave. Several of our young ballerinas..et, oui, zair 
parents too have expressed zair...Mon Dieu, le mot en 
anglaise...yez, re-poog-nahnce! Surely you're aware zat 
la petite Karen Ann, a very fine danseuse, non?, has 
taken to her bed and ees bass-ee-cool-ee vegetating 
somewhere between consciousness and catatonia since zat 
awe-fool day she meesed her jete an'...quite 
accidentally, non?...grabbed hold of your...pouch...to 
keep from falling on her enchanting face. 

Madame Kandinsky, hair muzzair, 'as even threatened to 
sue my poor lee-tel school, for...come se 
dire..."obscene aggravation" and "permissive and blatant 
lewdness" on za part of ze Ecole Pierrot. J'espoir mos' 
sincerely she weel accep' ze...Dieu! Parole!...yes, ze 
"out-of-court settlement off-fair".

"Ah, mon Row-bair, I know zis condition of yours ees not 
your fault. I am... trust me... fool-lee aware zat 
your... deformity: Please, my mizair-ab-leh english!... 
ees hereditary and hopefully... no, no, I mean 
hopelessly... irreparable. I'm so...sad for you, so sad, 
mais vraiment, surely you can see how, excuse me., 
preposterous you look! How vool-gair and provocatif! How 
dees-grahs-foo-lee tantalizing! Much, much too 
scandalously lewd and...tempting! Frankly, you are ze 
mos' coarse and disgustingly flagrantly lee-bee-dee-
noose young man I've ever seen! Zat... excuse me... lah-
see-vee-ooze protrusion in your tights ees... tiens! ... 
simply oo-tair-lee por-no-gra-feek! 

"Zare! I've said eet! Believe me, Row-bair, eet breaks 
my hear' to be so brutal wiz you. I know you're moze 
sair-ee-ooze abows a career in ze dance and zair's no 
doubt you have fine...potential. Except for zis 
one...excuse me...ee-nor-moose day-fec'! To be 
philosophical, I believe your poet, Shock-spair would 
call zis your "tragic flaw". 

If ze poetry mend your wounded soul, eh bien, heed 'ees 
words! Accep' za ray-all-ee-tay. Learn to leave wiz eet. 
Life goes on like a magique carousel! Up and down ze 
horses pump! Up and down! Up and down! Up and down! 
Yes... mais... where was I, Row-bair, ah oui!.. we all 
must accept our ride on zis dee-zee whirl! We mus' 
accept our... handicaps. Row-bair, try to be brave! Like 
Marie Antoinette at ze guillotine! So brave, proud, 
firm... firm... firm wiz head held high! Oui, like ze 
cannon wiz zeh big balls aimed up and ready to go boom 
boom! In time, mon cher, you will aim your cannon high 
and shoot to ze skies. I should like to be zair watching 
when you do! For you weel, my big brave Row-bair!"

Absentmindedly tucking some stray pubes back in his g-
string, Bobby fumed and muttered a "fuck you" under his 
breath. "Damn you, Pillage, I'll aim my cannon high all 
right! I'll shoot my big balls so you'll hear the report 
all the way back in Madison!" He cupped his heaving 
pouch and shouted, "I'll fuckin' 'deal weez eet' 
alright!"

Out front, Whopper Wally's music hammered out too loud 
for anyone to hear Bobby's oath. 

The stinky little auditorium was jam packed. SRO and 
tighter than sardines. On Fridays, the last show was 
always a sellout, but with Wally and Bobby on the same 
bill, tickets were harder to find than roosters' balls. 
Scalpers quadrupled their investments. And regulars in-
the-know had purchased their tickets two weeks in 
advance. Every horny, sticky-dicked voyeur in Big Apple 
Gaydom sat or stood jammed thigh to thigh in the hot, 
little hellhole.

In an aisle seat, stage left, a good-looking young guy 
named Matty writhed and squirmed as he got off on 
Wally's show. But it was Bobby he was there for, and 
Bobby for whom he saved his cream. He'd heard a lot 
about the dancer and his dangles secondhand. Tonight 
he'd judge for himself. If he could only concentrate a 
little better. 

"I shouldn't've worn these goddamn jeans," he whimpered 
to himself, digging his denim ass into the tattered 
seat, "Too motherfuckin' tight! My meat's so mashed 'n 
hot it feels like it's fryin'!"

Next to him, a well-tailored man eyed the gross genital 
heap writhing,and unwittingly smacked his chops. He 
wondered whether the plump package was real or 
artificial, maybe a Ruby Star grapefruit. Some guys 
would do anything to attract attention. But second and 
third takes decided him that too much genital detail 
showed through the thick denim to be anything but the 
real stuff.

His sweaty palms wiped themselves on the insides of his 
neatly pleated blue serge pants and fell open just below 
the triangular tent below his belt. Back at work, in 
front of the terminal all day, hot and bothered, he got 
a half dozen hard-ons thinking about how hot it might be 
to strip off his underwear and go Calvinless to the 
Rialto. Later, he unpeeled the crusty briefs in the 
executive men's room and stashed them in his briefcase 
under the day's spreadsheets. It was a kick strolling 
down Madison bouncing bare-assed under his three piece 
suit.

But now, sitting in soppy sweat and precum juices, the 
thrill was gone. His fat dickhead dug hard against his 
rough cold fly. Oscar and Little Oscar were both 
starting to hurt. If he'd thought just how horny these 
blatant show-offs always got him, he'd have realized he 
needed the comforting bondage and drainage of a soft 
cotton sap. Had he subconsciously wanted to suffer this 
torment? No. Oscar was no masochist. Besides, not even 
the most dedicated pain-lover would wish this on 
himself! His lacerated headslit slid open-mouthed along 
the rough steel ribs and burned its tender lining. Shit, 
he thought, it was definitely a bad idea.

But across the aisle, stanchioned on one of the side 
bleachers, Old Man Maintz definitely thought otherwise. 

Mainz was a regular. A major backer and nightly devotee 
of The Royale Rialto All Male Revue. He'd been to all 
the shows since they started in the early Seventies, 
back when male strippers and he himself were young. 
Well, male stripping anyway. He'd seen each change of 
cast so many times he knew every dancing dickhead by 
heart. And every set of bounding balls by his hard.

First and foremost, Mainz was a ball man. He liked 'em 
big. He liked 'em small. He liked 'em anyway at all. To 
him they were nice hairy or shaved and looked choice 
hanging loose and low or packed up firm and tight. So 
long as a set of two (or even one alone) swung suspended 
and on view, the old guy was happy as a pig in shit.

Since the pro balls on stage were so well known, he 
spent a lot of his theatre time checking out the nuts in 
the house. Like a cat on the prowl for a fresh mouse, 
Mainz enjoyed the hunt as much as the catch. Even 
partial views of a virgin bags got him off. The Rialto 
Revue got its audiences so hot they commonly played 
openly with themselves. Sometimes, blatantly. So Mainz 
seldom went home without a vivid ball recall or two to 
stroke himself to dreamland. Tonight alone, and this 
early on, he'd snagged three memorable sets. 

The first hung loose in the back row. Big, black and 
shiny, they'd been pulled out and over some beige chinos 
that set them off like onyx on alabaster. They were 
attached to an African-American in a punk-cut, a singer 
in a local rap group in Bed-Stuy. He'd been christened 
Leander Ellington Jones, but called himself Amahl Ben-
Akmar as a teen when he was a political activist. Now he 
preferred Jivin' Jay. He was toying with H. H. H. 
Hamhock for the future.

Five minutes after he'd settled in, Jivin' hauled out 
his heavy balls and spread them out to air. As a 
performer, like Bobby, he knew the value of publicity. 
As a seasoned exhibitionist, he knew he had the stuff to 
show and compete with the studs on stage. 

Before Jay's sac could scarcely cool, a cute curly-
haired blond yuppie or preppie, some kinda White, 
crawled between his splayed legs and set to feasting on 
his healthy meatballs. He just leaned back and grooved 
on the lapping. Made him feel nice. Happy enough to hum 
a hip-hop lappy-lap rap out loud to help the kid with 
his rhythm. 

Now and then he opened his eyes to look back at the 
dirty old dude perched up on the bleachers checking him 
out. The old guy was cool. He stared real down 'n dirty 
like a wino or some other kind of bum. Bein' white 
didn't mean bein' right. But enough wrong ones had bucks 
and attitude to get Jay steamy. So the old coot was 
cool. Made up for the rest. Jivin' sang a "pumpity-pump 
hump hump hump" rap to help foster the jacking jerking 
the dirty trenchcoat bunched on the old dude's lap.

And Mainz bopped his dick to the beat. He played drums 
for Jimmy Dorsey back in the Forties and could dig a 
good cadence. And a good show-off even more. Especially 
one who knew the score, and how to play it.

Mainz glanced down the back row and, direct center, 
sighted and bagged nut-catch number two. An especially 
valuable one since the prey was quite small and just 
barely visible. 

The two balls tight together rose like a pale quarter 
moon over a black polished-cotton sky. They were the 
only light on Sidney Longbotham, a puny, balding bank 
teller. Prissy even more than puny, he was agelessly 
middle aged, born weary and used. He wore unflattering 
(on him) rimless glasses on a nondescript face that 
passed unnoticed initially and seldom caught a second 
glance. 

Sidney, like Oscar a couple rows ahead, had made a fatal 
mistake (or wise decision) before leaving work. 
Sidney's, however, was lots worse (much better?) than 
Oscar's. 

He'd visited the Rialto plenty of times before, always 
resolved to pick up a dancer for take-home, or, if not a 
stripper, at least a face in the crowd. But being timid 
and shy, he never looked anyone in the eye long enough 
to make contact, never had the voice to speak even a 
hello, and never had the courage to act, even just to 
open his wallet. Sidney needed help. He knew that. Some 
sort of moral support. Encouragement.

Once, a few months back, he tried getting it from a 
bottle. But Sidney wasn't a drinker. Not even a sipper. 
He got totally plastered on one marguerita in the 
Algonquin's Blue Bar and came to a couple hours later 
laid out on a laundry hamper in the hotel's sub-
basement. A Russian or Polish chambermaid had been 
seeing to him between sheet changes. He regained 
consciousness, rocking, pressed to her ample bosom and 
lulled by a Slavic Lullaby. Later, the nightmare came 
back: rescued by the old Gypsy woman in The Wolfman, 
convinced he was Larry Talbot, his hands had grown 
talons and dripped with blood. Her blood.

Liquor wasn't the answer for Sidney. 

The Thursday before this visit, though, when the bank 
was closed to customers and Sidney was separating his 
fives, tens and twenties, he overheard two women tellers 
talking and giggling as they toted. About a bachelorette 
party one of them had given for a girlfriend the weekend 
before. At the words, "male stripper", Sidney lost track 
of the fives and had to start over. 

He stopped altogether when he heard a voice say, "Ya 
stuck da buck in his g-string! Where'd ya get da noive? 
Didja see his thing? Was it stiff an' stuff? I betcha he 
was a fairy, huh? Was he cute? Alotta fairies ah good 
lookin'. Makes ya sick, like priests. Was his back 
hairy? I don't care whadda looka a guy is, wit a hairy 
back, you can keep'm. Did he take his thing off an' show 
his thing? Where'd ya get da noive?" 

The other voice said she figured the girls might get 
uptight so, she said, she bought some joints on Forty-
Second Street. "We all smoked like chimneys excep' 
Mahshah, she was a nun, ya know." By the time the 
stripper showed up with the engagement cake, she said, 
they were all so stoned they "prac'ly" ripped his 
clothes off--"a cop outfit yet! Real cute! Like Erik 
Estrada! Only shawtah teeth"--as he came in the door.

Sidney had to recount the tens four times after that. 
But he somehow managed to balance out. And somehow 
managed to muster the courage to make a lunchtime trip 
to the West Side for a drug dealer on Times Square. He 
found one without looking. Well, actually, the dealer 
"found" Sidney. A Puerto Rican kid in recycled Fifties 
peg leg pants, hawked "good smoke" beside the shattered 
glass cases of a shuttered movie house, right next to 
Sidney's favorite porno shop. The one with four 
cellophane wrapped magazines for ten dollars.

"You want some coke too, man? Got some nice coke." 
Sidney said no, he only drank Perrier. The kid said 
"cool" and went on to another sale.

Later, when the other tellers had left for the day, 
Sidney decided to smoke one of his two joints. All of 
it. He lit up and burned his nose in the janitor's 
closet and coughed with each inhale, blowing the exhale 
into an open carton of toilet paper. 

He'd never smoked before, not even a cigarette. But he 
learned how by re-reading a couple descriptive passages 
in old porno novels. He catalogued all his books and 
magazines by topic, studio, and model on three by five 
color-coded cards. He even typed an index for each 
publication and glued it to the inside back flap. He 
also cross-referenced subjects from one book to another. 
There were forty-four listings for grass (see Marijuana) 
with two subheaded, "smoke, how to".

Fortunately all the bank officers were gone too, off for 
a long weekend in The Hamptons, when Sidney lit up. Only 
two pot-bellied guards, stoned themselves, were left in 
the building. They watched, delighted, as their favorite 
jerk staggered and weaved his way into the street. They 
even helped him find the door. Twice.

He made his way to the second floor theatre, more 
swimming than walking. Along Forty-Fifth the usual 
sights took on an unreal patina. A gang of construction 
workers scaled girders wearing hardhats and work boots 
as usual but, oddly, nothing else. Except for one who 
had on a silver jock, and another, bare, but with a red 
and white target painted over his ass. Sidney was so 
busy shooting phantom darts, he collided with a squad of 
college boys in sequined headbands and diaphanous 
wrestling singlets. 

Luckily for him they were so intent on maintaining 
strict triangular formation as they tumbled and jumping-
jacked their way, Sidney suffered little more than a 
stern glower as they flipped past. 

As he crossed the converging rivers of Seventh and 
Broadway, a couple old fisherwomen boating past, 
shielded their eyes. He imagined they were protecting 
themselves from the sun's glare flashing off his metal 
suit. He was right. But only about the flashing.

He coasted his lilypad to the gates of the Sacred Temple 
and scaled the marble stairs on his knees. It was 
traditional. Offering fifty drachmas and the flock of 
sheep with him to the Druid Priestess who guarded the 
Sanctum Sanctorum, he bowed and entered the shrine, 
dabbing his lips with Ganges water in the penile font. 
The mosque air was thick with the effluvium of musk and 
myrrh. Cymbals and timbrels rang, lyres sang, and he 
took his customary place of honor on the Peacock Throne 
between the statues of Hercules and Shiva.

Then settled in the chair (Or tub perhaps? Yes, crystal 
basin!) Sidney perused the hall (Or theatre? Arena?) and 
noted the strangeness of the voyeurs around him. Were 
they perhaps Nubians? Yes, Nubians. Definitely! Or 
Vikings. More likely Cretins with axes to grind. 
Whichever, he noted that at times whoever they were, 
they were visibly there. More often, they were not. 

But the altar ahead, at least, stayed constant. Still, 
the images upon it seemed to transmogrify periodically. 
The only constant seemed to be an enormous distended 
dick with bloated balls that swayed and darted from the 
mutating Idol/High Priest who danced and whirled luridly 
before the assembled apostles of Baal.

Old Man Mainz petted his limp, leaky shaft with 
deliberate strokes, as he watched as the lewd, 
conspicuously drugged little man stumble in his seat and 
unzip his fly. He leaned forward for a better look as 
Sidney tugged and yanked his dainty dick free and barely 
exposed the tight little mound of delicate balls. 

As the teller slobber-licked the open palm of his right 
hand and transferred the slime to his stiff baby-prick, 
Mainz pumped harder on his own. He leered as the little 
man jacked his stub pencil penis with a frenzy that made 
the entire back row of seats reverberate in harmony. 

When, after a very short while, several thick globs of 
cum spurted and sputtered onto the tight hillock, 
Sidney's frantic stroking continued unabated. Even after 
a good half hour, when Mainz looked a fifth time, the 
jack-pace kept up, if anything, wilder and sloshier. 
Between looks, Mainz surmised, the little guy had let 
fly two or three more loads as evidenced by the juices 
coating the revealed bow of his balls. It now, in fact, 
resembled the top half of a glazed doughnut protruding 
from a goodie bag. 

Mainz was a sucker for sweets even though, to a diabetic 
like himself, they were a sin. Still, he was sorely 
tempted. He almost rose to satisfy his fatal cravings 
when he forced himself to turn away and, in so doing, 
noticed the man bleachered below, just one row down and 
one seat to the right.

In their full glory sat the old guy's third nut bagging 
of the night. Whoppers! The kind of catch fish stories 
are made of. 

The man had been there as long as Mainz but had passed 
unnoticed. He'd been sitting so still, he'd done nothing 
to signal attention himself. Oh, Mainz had noticed the 
full head of thick grey hair with envy, but that was it. 

But now he caught the nuts, and took in their full 
setting. The fellow was outfitted in an old peacoat, 
with a dark blue turtleneck underneath. Pretty hot get-
up for such a sweltering joint. Old Man Mainz figured 
he'd been in the Navy maybe twenty, thirty years back 
and still got off on playing sea dog. No white cap 
though, just the bushy mane. And, from the old guy's 
angle, a big but decidedly masculine nose. 

That was the look of the jewel box. As for the gems 
themselves: fifty carats, sixty maybe! Bigger than life! 
At first, Mainz though the guy had brought a couple 
apples to munch on during the show and had sat them on 
his lap. 

They were too big, obviously, to be real. Mainz, gonad 
gourmet that he was, knew the look of paste. Plainly, 
the balls had been vacuum pumped for a few hours, or 
more likely, days, before this outing. Even in the dim, 
smokey light cast in the bleachers, they gave a telltale 
reddish glow typical of an artificially amplified sac. 

On closer inspection they resembled tomatoes more than 
apples. Not plum tomatoes, or rubbery winter pinks, but 
real hothouses! The Israeli's. Only they looked a little 
too tightly packed, like they were crammed into an 
overstretched Baggie. 

The guy called himself Dick, though his real name was 
David. He liked the sound of Dick. Made him feel like a 
dick. He wanted to call himself Balls or Nuts and even 
tried it out a couple times in bars when he first moved 
to the city. But all it got was laughs and lines like, 
"Funny, fellah, ya don't look bald" or "I thought you 
were nuts when you came through that door!". So Dave 
stuck with Dick as a poor second best.

He was born on a peach plantation in Georgia but joined 
the Navy the day he reached age. He stayed hitched for 
twenty-three years then figured he'd live off his hobby. 
Nuts. 

He opened a candy shop in the Village, specializing in 
fresh hot roasted nuts. All kinds from peanuts to 
Brazils. He liked the Brazils best but loved handling 
and talking up all kinds. Especially with other nut 
fanciers who got off on his suggestive puns.

Dick, don't forget, liked booze too. Went hand in hand 
with nuts at most bars, after all. He got the taste for 
dark rum in the Philippines and never lost it. He kept a 
bottle next to the candied cashews and another behind 
the big vat of Zenobia pistachios. He'd start to down it 
when the Angelus tolled from the church tower down the 
block. He held his liquor alright, except that it made 
him mean, well, meaner. He was born hot-headed and an 
added shot of pickled anger only made him boil hotter. 

He had no real friends, not even acquaintances. Just nut 
buddies who dropped by the shop for a hot sack on their 
way home. His old landlady was the only visitor his 
apartment got. She looked in on him once a week, for ten 
bucks extra. She'd always try to get the cleaning over 
before he'd get back from the store. He'd know she'd 
been there by the stack of vacuum tubes piled high in 
the kitchen bathtub, sparkling clean and draining dry. 
Mrs. Ostrevski thought were display cases to keep the 
roaches off his sweets. She wasn't half wrong.

Dick wore his blues every day. He wore skivvies and 
dogtags to bed. He used a timer to set off his stereo in 
the morning. It played the Navy fight song, some bells 
and pipes, and the hornpipe from "Ruddigore".

His blues came from Goldberg's in Philly. His own hadn't 
fit his waist and ass in years. And with his bigger 
balls, he had to have even the largest reissues 
retailored by the queer who sold leather around the 
corner. The guy really got off on fitting him. After 
hours. Dick always warned him to "lay off" and shoved 
the guy on his ass when he grabbed too high with the 
tape. The both got off on it. Still, if there was 
anything Dick hated more than a faggot, it was a faggot 
who copped a feel.

Dick, wore his favorite bells to the Rialto, the good 
old classics with the thirteen button flap. One button 
for each of the original colonies, sir! Whenever he 
undid them, he'd litanize Delaware, Virginia, and the 
other eleven as he'd finger each little plastic anchor. 
He did it religiously, even in the Rialto.

He sat now with the flap fully undone and tossed down 
between his legs. A wool scarf--Had all the warmth of 
his blood gone to his balls?--was wrapped around his 
prizewinners to hide the abundant harvest from poachers 
and gonad gophers. But from where Old Man Mainz sat, the 
scarf was just a cushioned border around Dick's 
patriotic Victory Garden.

Dick felt the sweat beading on his forehead. The old 
Navy blues felt hot as ever. But then, so did his dick 
and balls, in blues or out. He liked to feel the sweat 
drip down onto his spheres of accomplishment. It gave 
him a good feeling deep inside. It made him gloat. He 
felt all swelled up with a sense of accomplishment. Both 
of them.

After seven years of long hard work he'd finally blown 
his balls up to fifteen inchers. About seven and a half 
each. Actually, eight and a quarter on the left, six and 
three quarters on the right. They looked and felt great.

And so did he. Except for the constant throbbing ache 
that ran from the center of his nuts clear up into his 
jaw. Not even a completely reconstructed crotch could 
ease the agony he felt when even the slightest pressure 
bore down on The Biggest Balls in the World. 

That's why it felt so damned good to sit stock still 
with his bullnuts out in the open, feeling pressured by 
the atmosphere alone. Yet, even free like this, he 
didn't dare move around too much. Crossing his legs too 
quick could crush his thigh into his sac with a force 
like a whack from a top grade two by four.

But that's just how Dick liked it. Wouldn't have it any 
other way. He ate up the ache in his bloated balls. He 
loved the way each nut tugged down like a rock on its 
slender sperm cord. The pain was a pleasure, reminding 
him just how massive he was. He moaned in erotic bliss 
each time his walloppers slapped his beefy thighs when 
he walked around pantsless, as he often did, behind the 
packed showcase. His nuts with his nuts. That's how he 
figured it. Sometimes he sprinkled the fine-grained salt 
on his own set. He savored the stinging burn.

Every morning and every night (and twice more during the 
day on Sundays and Mondays) he'd scream with delight as 
his pounding meat slammed his aching nuts into the 
mattress or toilet seat, or hard against the wooden 
kitchen chair. Yeah, beatin' off for hours, that was the 
best! That was Dick's idea of time well-spent. But, only 
at home, alone. Never in the shop. Never in a dump like 
this. Damned pussy faggots would really get off on 
seeing his big beauties bounce as he primed the pump. 
But, no way. Back home, that's where he liked to leak 
and moan and sweetly suffer. Not out in public 
surrounded by a bunch of baby-balled bozos.

Backstage, Bobby was being none too successful at 
sapping the nervous tension from his body. He shook his 
limp arms, futilely, as he felt his nuts rev up a couple 
more cycles. He knew a telltale precum spot already 
dotted the peak of his yellow pouch. He ran his right 
index finger over the pressure point, hoping he might be 
wrong. He wasn't. The slick nylon casing was moist to 
the touch, and the blotch was even more extensive than 
he'd figured. 

"Shit, you'd think I was some motherfuckin' virgin or 
somethin'! Damn it all!"

Onstage, Whopper Wally from Waukeegan, Wisconsin (Two 
Dairy Staters on one little stage!) poised his macho 
build at apron's edge. In his silver reflective shades 
and Marine dogtags and with the snarl on his mug, he 
stood the very picture of an arrogant military stud. 
With booted feet spread wide he balanced his mighty 6'2" 
frame on his heels and dipped his toes down unsupported. 
He flicked his cigarette butt behind him with a 
contrived pitch. He'd done his act so many times before, 
he could flick his butt and Bick, and his butt and dick 
in his sleep.

He slid his hands down the sides of his dark, hairy 
chest, en route to his loins, readying them to rip the 
already torn and mungy jock from his loins, like always. 
And as usual, his enormous prick (the hard heart of his 
act) strained against the perverse elastic. His kiwi-
sized dickhead traced a good half-inch thicker outline 
in the pouch than his splendid cucumber shaft.

"My fuckin' big fat head is fuckin' gettin' these 
assholes droolin' like hungry pigs!". 

He stared out into the nebulous core of viewers from 
behind the protective shades. 

"Fuckin' makes 'em slobber like the filthy, dirty little 
piggies the assholes are!"

"Oink! Oink!", he yelled out loud. Some guys laughed. 
Some just jacked. Nobody understood.

The steady stream of preseminal fluid leaking through 
the open weave of his jock glittered in strands from 
pouch to thigh, and from leg to leg like an intricate 
spiderweb. The smell of his seepage wafted well beyond 
the first few rows. Several men, seated at least halfway 
back, got dizzy from the heady aroma. The stench of 
their own leaking juices mingled with Wally's and 
saturated the dank auditorium air with an animal 
sexuality so strong that one particularly sensitive 
young man scared himself (and the guy next to him) by 
throbbing out a thirty second orgasm without even 
touching himself. 

A grizzled old coot( even seedier than Old Man Mainz), 
seated on the guy's other flank, laughed out loud as he 
watched the helpless ejaculant clutch the arms of his 
seat and toss his head back like a condemned man 
strapped down and jolted to death. The old guy may have 
laughed but, as he did, his own wizened joint dribbled 
out some stale juice of its own, followed by an 
involuntary piss that soaked right through his Depends.

Bobby caught Wally's act from behind, through a slit cut 
in the back curtain. He never got bored with watching 
Wally's beefy butt, especially on parade, framed and 
lifted by the elastic straps of a jock. His eyes traced 
the sweat streaming from the small of the dancer's back 
down over the curves of the fully saturated melons 
below. Those beauties tasted as candy sweet as they 
looked. 
Bobby knew. First hand. First tongue.

About a year back, he and Wally together had worked up a 
specialty act. They called it, "Dick 'n Balls: A Naughty 
Night of Song, Dance and Patter". It had a limited run, 
performed only at exclusive private parties, usually on 
the Upper East Side, but once in a loft in TriBeCa, and 
twice down in D.C. for a Gay Member of the House. And 
his wife.

Wally played Dick, and Bobby, Balls. Together, the 
partners staged a traditional vaudeville act with a few 
decidedly untraditional twists. They spent a shitload on 
the costumes, though the whole lot of them fit handily 
in a small duffle bag. The wardrobe consisted mainly of 
jeweled g-strings, crotchless tights, pouchless jocks, 
assless shorts and a matching Tarzan and Boy loincloth 
set, pouchless beneath. 

They cracked stale jokes that they stole from old movies 
and books, and raunched up. They sang tasteless ditties 
with real gusto and grand style. And they danced. That's 
what the crowd came for, the dancing. So, they danced: 
together and apart, pouched and bare, tumescent and 
completely stiff. They closed with Bobby's own 
choreography for a duo version of "Afternoon of a Faun" 
with even more masturbatory action than Nijinsky could 
have dreamed in his wildest wet one.

The act was enormously popular. They turned down a 
number of very lucrative bookings during the course of 
the run because of scheduling conflicts. They rejected a 
firm offer from the coast, and even said no to a very 
lucrative booking on a Gay cruise.

Since their audience expected great dancing and got it, 
that was no surprise. Nor was the size and swell of 
their organs. Nor the beauty of their bodies and faces. 
Nor did their assured, sweet singing astonish anyone, 
since both had sung publicly before in their own 
separate acts. And very successfully.

No, the real surprise, the real reason for their 
phenomenal success, was their assured, perfectly 
measured way with filthy, dirty jokes and bawdy stories.

Wally told cock tales and Bobby bounced off ball banter, 
both like pros. Each anecdote was acted or mimed 
graphically and lewdly and included plenty of audience 
participation, all the way from hefting and grabbing to 
stroking and fondling. The elite gathered erotically 
invariably were stunned by the two men sporting raging, 
dripping hard-ons telling gags with the timing and 
finesse of Benny and Berle. 

(Though the latter, it's said, could have staged quite 
an impressive Erection Extravaganza himself, if his 
comedic talents had taken him in that direction). 

There was plenty of manual manipulation of the 
entertainers by the audience, but there was no "mouth 
on" action in the show, except between the two men 
themselves.

That's how Bobby got his first taste of Wally's Casabas. 
The sampling came at the end of Part One, during their 
acclaimed "Kiss My Ass" routine. It was an outrageously 
obscene variation on an old Abbott & Costello classic 
about bowling balls, or perhaps it was watermelons. 
Anyway, it was all pretty corny stuff but the crowd 
swallowed it whole anyway. 

In fact, when the two naked studs got to the double 
barrelled punchline, the appreciative moans and thankful 
spatters from the fans made the reason for the scheduled 
break between parts one and two pretty much self-
evident. And necessary to "recoup one's losses", as 
Bobby always announced with an arrivederci wave.

The last few minutes of the routine went something like 
this: 
"Well fuck you, asshole!", Bobby'd yell up at Wally, as 
he lay spread out naked and hard with his thighs splayed 
wide-open to the assembled company, "if that's how you 
feel about the Department of Agriculture, you can 
fucking well sit on a corncob! And the good senator from 
Iowa has just the one for you!" 

Then he opened his mouth wide and stuck out his long, 
hard tongue, which had been dyed yellow with saffron. 

"Gladly, Banana Breath!", Wally'd retort with a side-
splitting lisp and eye flutter, as he plunged the deep 
crack between his two sleek melons over Bobby's oral 
erection. 

Blackout and a huge laugh. And groans. And splats. Lots 
of laughs, groans and splats. As they say in Show Biz, 
"It got 'em where they lived every time!" 

Watching those beefy cheeks wobbling and wiggling now, 
Bobby tried to stare down into the dark gulf separating 
them. But the abyss was unfathomable. Bobby sighed and, 
once again, regretted the petty fight over billing that 
had broken up their act. Holy Shit! Who really cared 
whose dick came before whose balls anyway!

Bobby's scrumptious, albeit fruitless, daydream 
dissolved with a great communal roar that shook not just 
his reverie but the very unsteady foundations of the 
dinky building itself. The noise snapped Bobby back to 
reality like the mighty crack of a passing jet breaking 
time. 

Wally had ripped off his jock.

"Holy Judas Priest!", a solo bass voice bellowed, while 
an attending chorus of tenor whoops and baritone grunts 
sang harmony and a half dozen dicks shot their loads. 
Still another dozen crested to ejaculation summits but 
were willed back down to ride lower, more manageable 
slopes.

Old Man Mainz lifted his eyes from the dandy tomatoes 
planted in the lap below and jerked his half-hard dick a 
couple more sticky strokes. A slavering blend of precum 
and cum trickled from his slit and dropped with an 
audible plop onto the hardwood platform floor. He'd seen 
Wally's Whopper perform at least a dozen times before, 
but the sight of that massive pole jutting out of the 
dancer's groomed groin like a rolling pin or a billy 
club held at the ready still demanded a donation from 
the old man's balls.

And the old guy had enough balls to give! 

On the veneer, Mainz could have been any dirty old man 
anywhere. He thought so too. He toted the same old mangy 
trenchcoat over the typical worn-out but ravenous dick. 
He sported the same two day growth of beard, wore the 
same dirty clothes, scratched with the same dirty nails, 
and wound the same forty or fifty hairs, in swirling 
layers, over and around the same bald head. 

But his nuts broke with type. 

It wasn't just that they were large and firm, the 
classic Grade A Hen's Eggs, or that they came packed in 
a handsome pouch that was satin smooth and always free-
flowing. They merited extra-special attention because of 
the unusual length and extension of the ballbag. The sac 
itself was truly awe-inspiring. Fiction often depicts 
low hangers that are so extraordinary long, they stretch 
down to their owner's knees. That's the kind of 
exaggerated depiction referred to as "poetic license", 
or "a license to lie", if you will.

But Mainz's bag didn't lie, it hung. And hung and hung. 
For days. And no minstrel was needed to sing embroidered 
lays to the old guy's nutsack. All it needs is the kind 
of recitation of facts found on a DA's note pad. 

Since babyhood, Little Mainzie was forced to haul around 
a pair of scumbags that actually, literally, honestly 
hung down from pubis to mid-knee. His very atypical hang 
wasn't due to the size or weight of the gonads within 
the scrotum. No, the phenomenon owed itself to a simple, 
inherited genetic trait: the family jewels had an 
heirloom aspect. This hereditary factor troubled his 
father, who was himself unaffected by it, since the 
idiosyncrasy skipped generations. But at the birth of 
each of his three sons, the man worried himself sick one 
would be stricken with the affliction. 

The man knew his third born bore the curse by the look 
of alarm on the nurse's face as she entered the 
expectant father's waiting room and flutteringly 
announced, "an eight pound, six ounce baby... ball... 
that is... boy... a... boy... Mr. Mainz," before she 
collapsed. She was carried out and relieved from duty 
for the remainder of her shift.

Little Mainzie's far-reaching sac mocked any acceptable 
sense of proportion! For it to be harmonious, the grown 
man would have had to have stood nine feet tall! 

But well before one stands and walks, one lies and 
crawls. Poor Baby Mainzie shrieked in agony whenever, 
left unattended to play with his diapers slipping from 
his rump as he scooted across the carpet for his bunny, 
he unwittingly mashed his testicles with one knee and 
then the other, endlessly, unknowingly, until he was 
rescued from the awful self-abuse.

He got his first jockstrap at the age of three and wore 
a protective cup even in his trundle bed. His parents 
shielded him from public pools, boy scout camps, and any 
other places or activities where his deformity might be 
exposed, much like Sleeping Beauty guarded from the 
fatal needle. But like the fate of the child in the 
fairy tale, his own was predestined and unavoidable. The 
King and Queen's futile attempts at averting the 
finger's prick were mirrored in the Mainz's thwarted 
efforts at preventing a prick's finger from pointing 
with scorn at their third son's balls. 

By his teen years, and mandatory high school gym class, 
poor Mainzie could no longer bind his balls and tuck 
them away as personal chimeras. With adolescence came 
brutal reality. The poor lad suffered unbearable 
ridicule. A simple walk from locker to showers sent 
gales of laughter resounding and rebounding off the hard 
tile walls. He endured one hateful slur after another, 
from "Hey, giraffe nuts, I think yer droppin' 
somethin'!" to "Keep the pendulum still, Mainzie, you've 
already overwound the clock!" to "Better watch out, boy, 
Tarzan's lookin' fer a vine!" 

Often the teen would go straight home after classes, 
skip dinner, lock himself in his room, and cry himself 
to sleep. One time, undressed, he threw himself down on 
the mattress with such abandon his bag swung and wrapped 
itself around the bedpost several turns and nearly tore 
his nuts from his groin.

At the age of fifteen he tried teaching himself how to 
walk without swinging his balls. He practiced a 
variation with quick little steps that only made his 
nuts jiggle and jump even more. He then tried strutting 
in long, slow strides, but then the bag would sweep back 
and forth in wider arcs, eventually flipping behind him 
to slap the backs of his knees with a resounding swacks! 
None of his experiments did any good. No matter what his 
gait, his set would swipe him with the force of a 
medieval mace on a chain. 

On top of which (literally and figuratively), his 
smaller than average dick looked even punier. Which 
caused more shame. And provoked more disparagement. For 
along with the ball jabs, he had to endure cock zingers 
like "Hey, Mainzie, there's a pimple on your nuts!" and 
"Whatsamatter? Got no ration coupons for meat? Yer gonna 
get sick stuffin' yerself on all them potatas, Mainzie!" 

Seated with his finger over his pisslit, dyking his 
unbidden seepage, Mainz watched as Wally's pommel cuffed 
the air before it with vicious whooshing jabs. Mainz's 
free hand tugged on his smarting low hangers. They had 
gotten caught between the seat edge and the back of his 
knees when he and the rest of the crowd were lifted to 
Hard-on Heaven by Wally's jock shredding. The old guy 
hoisted the battered pair back up to the safety zone 
atop his thick thighs. All the while, and despite the 
pain, his greedy eyes never lost their grip on Wally's 
cracking whip. 

As the performer danced, his dick waltzed on its own, 
stiff, promenading and parading, and leaking more of its 
silvery slime. The pisslit spun out a second glittering 
web from hairy thigh to hairy thigh.

Bobby's back view of the shimmering mesh of precum 
trickling from Wally's cockmouth made the precum leakage 
seem to be more like a random, but rigid, thin wire 
wrap, a batten to secure Wally's straining monster from 
breaking free. One series of filaments seemed to lift it 
slightly, while another yanked it firmly to the left, 
and yet another hauled it down to his knees. Each worked 
overtime to manage the load. Each appeared ready to 
break under the strain. 

Bobby watched, as mesmerized as the rest, and he felt 
the gooey spot at the tip of his pouch spreading wider 
and thicker. He wished he'd have had the foresight to 
bring paper towels and a change of g-string with him 
backstage. He hated offering himself to his public in 
anything but pristine condition. It was the star in him. 
He owed his public that much. Perhaps he still had time 
for a quick dash back to the dressing room before 
Wally's act was over...

But no.

The oppressive eroticism cooking in Wally's tight nut-
cauldrons broiled too hot to keep from boiling over. His 
balls pressed tighter and tighter against his pubis as 
his bloated nightstick swelled up and out to full 
prominence. 

A rather dignified looking middle-aged gentleman in 
hornrim glasses and striped school tie held his 
briefcase tighter against his boxer-bound genitalia as 
he regarded the spectacle of this brawny god bobbing 
barely four feet before him. This was his first visit to 
the Rialto. It wouldn't be his last. 

As he watched Wally's balls ascend completely into the 
pubic cavities that were their fetal home, and as he saw 
Wally's foot long Whopper stretch to an even fuller 
mind-boggling, vein-bursting thirteen inches, the 
gentleman lost it. He flung his briefcase aside, hitting 
a man behind in the side of the head, and he shrieked 
like a maniac, "I've gotta have him! Sweet Lord in 
heaven! I've gotta have him!"

That made Wally lose it too. 

The look of the drool slobbering onto the executive's 
chin and the tears of frustration flooding his eyes took 
the dancer over the brink. He crouched, knees wide, at 
the edge of the stage directly in front of the lusting 
voyeur. Locking his arms behind his head, he looked deep 
in the man's tearing eyes and willed his engorged dick 
to shoot a steady stream of thick cum from the tip of 
his burning pisslit all the way to the tented lap of his 
spellbound victim. 

The deranged man tried to leap mouth-first onto the big 
spurting cock but couldn't. Despite the overpowering 
urge, he felt locked in place. He was. Both his arms 
were being held down by hands hired by the management 
and placed on either side of him. 

As he bellowed a final desperate, "Dear God, let me go! 
Let me at him!", he lifted his obscene penile mound from 
his chair. His dick cut through the unzipped slit and 
issued load after load of searing hot cream as he 
screamed in lust and desperation.

The audience en masse thundered and roared a storm of 
approval. Wally rose to his feet to acknowledge the 
cheers, and as he bowed, his enormous prick still 
spouted juice. The stupefied executive crossed his eyes 
as his head fell back and he fainted dead away! 

The guards beside him swiftly unfastened his trousers, 
and husked them and the sopping wet boxers beneath, down 
to his shins. They lifted the comatose man onto his feet 
and offered Wally his victor's spoils: The priceless 
sight of the executive's still swollen and throbbing 
genitals, still dribbling cream, slicked over with a 
whitewash of rich, pungent cum. His thick pubic hair too 
was caked and matted with the gop. And his well-trained 
belly and hard thighs were gleaming with nectar as well. 

Wally shouted out, "Isn't this a lovely dish to set 
before the king!" as he dipped a booted toe into the 
glob in the man's nest and bunted it to the back wall.

One of the sentries scooped up a fingerful of semen from 
the man's nutcase and with an grand gesture and an 
exaggerated slurp sucked it off the tip, as his cohort 
sang out, "Mmm! Mmm! Good!" A refrain the entire crowd 
soon took up.

Wally laughed and blew the living corpse a kiss as the 
"Mmm! Mmm! Good!" chant became shouts of "Seventeen! 
Seventeen! Seventeen!" 

The poor, happy slob was the seventeenth Rialto 
neophyte, carefully positioned front row center, to blow 
his wad and fall in a dead faint over one of the 
dancers. For Wally himself, it was Victim Number Seven. 
As he stood rigidly still and bowed only his firm member 
to the cheering crowd, he couldn't help thinking that 
he'd finally tied Bobby's record. 

Feeling completely full of himself, Wally took an 
exaggerated conquering bow with one fist clenched high 
in the air and the other wrapped around the base of his 
enormous dick. As he turned to the right to accept his 
acclaim, A wide arc of his manmilk shot out to bless 
that side of the house. Then as he twisted to the left, 
a long cord of cum, freshly oozed from his dickmouth, 
went flying like an abandoned second stage rocket, and 
smacked a trio of cheering fans third row left. They 
lapped it up. So did Wally.

Old Man Mainz felt his own raging slit ooze still more 
unwanted milk despite the fingertip held hard against 
his own pisslit. 

Matty, the guy in the too-tight jeans, felt as though 
his throbbing dick would crack in two from the strain. 
He nearly cried out loud in torment. He looked into 
Oscar's lap next to him and saw that the tent in his 
pants had split open at the seam below the fly. A good 
inch and a half gap exposed some shimmering ballskin. 

Matty's own nuts started to burn as he looked! Then when 
he saw the underside of Oscar's coronal ridge on display 
next to the bag, he let out a weak sob and felt his 
bruised prickslit press deeper and harder into its denim 
cell. His mouth and eyes widened comically as he felt 
the pulsating convict trapped in his pants pour its guts 
out against his will.

Jivin' Jay and his preppie ballplay buddy had switched 
suck spots midway through Wally's act and, in fact, had 
seen nothing of his fabulous performance. Totally 
oblivious to the tumult around them, they had played on. 
And on. And on. The blond's pulpy pink-sacked plums were 
now being served and serviced. Jivin' gnawed and sucked 
his buddy as he stroked his own self-lubricating piston 
to another super-charged release. 

In the back row, little Sidney was whimpering like a 
wounded puppy. As the Pasha Sinday of Lower Ninevah, he 
was being forced to submit to, and just barely endure, 
his sacred Coming Of Age ritual. All princes royal since 
time immemorial had to submit to the holy rite. Failing 
the test meant the dissolution of his dynasty and his 
own death by hanging. By the balls. Pasha Sinday bit his 
lower lip and drew blood. He was determined not to fail. 

"Cursed be this Mighty Temptor! He seeks the Imperial 
Waters in vain! Only the exalted son of Isis and Thor 
himself, namely I, Pasha and Potentate, Sindar the 
Magnificent, shall ever bathe in the sacred stream! Nor 
will the next Phallic Beelzebub drain the power from 
these royal gonads! This I pledge in troth by the royal 
purple of my exalted dick!" 

As Wally strutted arrogantly offstage, he saluted his 
fans on both sides of the deep apron, and consciously 
and conscientiously rolled each orb of his perfect 
buttocks as seductively and deliberately as he could. 
With each alternating flex, he drove the audience 
completely lust-loco. The full solid spheres of flesh 
formed and reformed, pressing against each other like 
planets colliding in space. The globes of his ass were 
so mammoth they seemed omnipresent. All eyes were fixed 
on each big ball as it slowly grew smaller and more 
distant.

Tomato Dick watched the massive buttock mounds and his 
mind's eye saw a pair of enormous balls dangling like 
big lead weights and slamming against battered thighs. 
As he fantasized, he swore to himself that someday his 
ever-growing testicles would match the size and heft of 
Wally's beautiful ass mounds.

As the lights dimmed to black, the dancer parted the 
back curtain and stepped behind, coming face to face 
with Bouncin' Bobby. Their eyes met instinctively in 
challenge, like any other animal studs in sexual 
competition.

"Nice job, Wally, you even got me goin'!" Bobby said 
with sincerity. He stood back to add an illustrated 
"See?"

Wally saw that when he came, he conquered. 

"Thanks, Robert. I just warmed 'em up for ya, kid. Go 
out there an' sic 'em!" He slapped his ex-partner on the 
ass. Bobby felt a glow, warmer than just a spank sting. 
His entrance music started up. Wally broke eye contact, 
grinned, and began the walk to their common dressing 
area. But something inside urged him to turn back. 

Bobby, hands out to part the curtain, was startled to be 
spun around and slapped again. This time with a sloppy 
french kiss from his ex's cushiony lips. 

Bobby responded intuitively. His tongue explored each 
sweet warm sector of Wally's mouth. His right hand fell 
to gently squeeze and fondle his buddy-rival's goppy, 
half-hard dick. Wally swapped cops and cupped the 
fullness of Bobby's basket, sliding over the damp spent 
juices he had inspired. His thumb and forefinger pinched 
the apex of the sopping nylon pouch as the bowl of his 
palm carried the weight of his competitor's corpulent 
balls. 

The driving beat of Bobby's music quickened and grew 
louder as their lips peeled free. The show had to go on. 
They were both dedicated professionals and there was an 
audience out front hungry for entertainment. Bobby knew 
he had to deliver it.

He pulled back and gazed into Wally's Irish Setter eyes. 
Then he took in the full mouth, moustache-rimmed and 
moist, the cheeks, clear and olive, prickled with a 
stubble so thick the beard looked full-grown close-
shaved. His tongue swiped the sandpaper jaw, then licked 
down Wally's neck to swab the heaving pec knolls on his 
downy chest and to seek, suck and chew each jutting 
nipple barb dotting their summits.

Wally's balls were working overtime. He felt fresh dick-
drool puddle on his bare toes as Bobby's tongue worked 
its way back up the side of his neck.

"I'd say we have some unfinished business to take care 
of," Bobby breathed into Wally's ear as his tongue 
trailed the meaty rim and chewed the big droopy lobe.

Wally crushed his solid body against his sexmate and 
held him tight by the ass. "You know what I'm gonna do 
tonight, stud?"

"No. Whaccha gonna do, stud?"

"I'm gonna chew your balls like sweet jawbreakers till 
the sun comes up. And I'm gonna save your spilled cum 
and pour it like cream over our breakfast Wheaties." 

"Uh huh", Bobby sighed, licking deep in Wally's ear, 
"Then whatcha gonna do?"

"Then I'm gonna suck your salty nuts like hamhocks till 
the noon bell rings and tells me to pour your fresh 
juices over our Aunt Jemimas like thick gooey maple 
syrup." 

"Mmmm." Bobby moaned, teething on the short hairs at the 
nape of Wally's neck, as his pisslit oozed precum 
through his g-string into the fondling hand. "Then 
whatcha gonna do?"

"Then I'm gonna mouth boil those great big hen's eggs of 
yours till the five o'clock whistle blows for dinner. 
And I'm gonna..."

"And I'm gonna play chef for a while and blend our milks 
together to brew a rich, thick soup for us to slobber 
down for supper. And we'll get so bloated on the broth 
it'll force out fresh cum for the next day's breakfast!"

"I like your way with words, kid!"

"Wally, I feel like the luckiest guy alive! I dunno what 
I've done to deserve a swell guy like you! You're aces. 
man! And, hell, not many fools get a second ride on the 
merry-go-round. I missed my chance at the brass ring 
last time but, buddy, when it taps my fingers this time, 
I'm gonna hold on so tight it'll beg for mercy!"

"I love you, kid!"

"Oh, Wally, I love you more than anything! Apart we do 
okay, but together we've the moon and the stars! Let's 
not let them set and leave us in the dark again, baby! 
This time to hell with the billing! Balls! Dick! Who 
gives a fuck which comes first! This time your dick and 
my balls are equals! I've been wastin' away, pining like 
a bloodhound bayin' at midnight, without you! Aw, ya big 
lug, you know I can't live without your great big dick!"

"Hey, man," Wally groaned, returning his lover's neck 
swabs, "I dream of your big fat balls night and day, 
asleep or awake! I see them everywhere I look, 
everywhere I am! Especially bowling, man, that's when I 
miss 'em most! Aw shit, I was One stupid asshole to ever 
let your nuts get away!"

"No, baby, I was the asshole."

"No, big buddy, I was the asshole!"

"Okay, have it your way, stud. I'm through fightin'! All 
I want from now on is lovin', just lovin' and more 
lovin'!"

As the two sweaty, young athletes suctioned their 
lovesick bodies tighter and kissed so deep each felt the 
other's tongue down his throat, the musical din from the 
loudspeakers was overwhelmed by a deafening chant:

"Bouncin' Bobby! Bouncin' Bobby! Bouncin' Bobby!" 

"You're on, baby! Give 'em hell!"

Wally shoved Bobby through the curtain with a suddenness 
that made him appear on stage like a mystical 
apparition. The vision of the big blond with the perfect 
body, nude save for the thin strap sweeping a heart's 
curve over the top of his buns, stilled the booming roar 
to a breathless hush. 

In the dead silence, one lone voice cried, "Bounce 'em, 
Bobby! Bounce 'em!", and the show began.

With his back to the crowd, Bobby stood facing the 
silver ribboned curtain covering the rear of the stage. 
He watched his slivered reflections sway in mutating 
bits and pieces: the sharp arch of his right deltoid 
changed into the rounded point of a burnished nipple. 
The curve of a thigh outline wrapped itself around a 
slice of abdominal ridging. And, as the curtain rocked 
on, a mylar band mirroring his full lips kissed a 
refracted strip of his bulging yellow pouch. 

He flushed with happiness, feeling hotter, sexier, 
hornier, and more desirable than he'd ever felt before. 
He couldn't keep it all inside. It burst out oh him with 
a shout:

"Get ready for the sextravaganza of your lives, 
fuckers!"

He twirled on the ball of one foot to face his 
captivated audience as sexual captive. The impact made 
grown men shudder. The sweat that beaded over his 
voluptuous biceps and pectorals sparkled like glitter. 
His Hershey kiss nipples stuck out like silver 
arrowheads, and beneath their long shadows, the deep 
groves of his washboard stomach etched ripples that 
played with the light like the ridges of the Grand 
Canyon at High Noon. 

All this virile pulchritude stood on two downy fleeced 
legs so shapely and well sculpted that at the sight of 
them, Donatello would have melted his David for scrap 
iron, and Michelangelo, shattered his into marble chips, 
rather than concede defeat or knowingly immortalize 
imperfection.

But far more flawless was the feature no sculptor, from 
Hellenic times through the Renaissance, would dare 
depict with such outrageous articulation. The true focal 
point of Bobby's splendor rose as a colossal yellow 
mound at the juncture of pubis and thighs.

Dripping wet with precum, semen and sweat, the soggy 
fabric piece barely served its function as a filmy, 
translucent veil to shield Bobby's clearly visible penis 
and testicles. The elasticized hem of the pouch circled 
and clasped the base of his genitals with just enough 
pressure to hold the blood that had flowed into his 
shaft and keep it from escaping. As a result, his 
massive genitals were doubly enlarged and so ominous 
that the yellow balloon threatened to shatter and 
spatter the crowd with all his vital fluids.

Between Bobby's legs, the sun rose. It's molten gold 
promised nourishment for all living things. In return, 
the dangling amber sphere drew the history of man into 
itself. Dripping temptingly, the forbidden fruit of The 
Tree of Life begged for a bite! Drooping alluringly, the 
luscious pomegranates of the Song of Songs sang 
passionate melodies. Blazing radiance, rare and precious 
opals refused by the Princess Salome were offered anew 
in payment for a dance. 

Suspended in time, in the space between Bobby's thighs, 
hung the glory that was Greece, the greatness that was 
Rome, and the undiscovered Eighth Wonder of the Ancient 
World! Here, from his pubis, the most exquisite set of 
genitalia homoerotica hung like giant globules of 
infinity!

Slowly, very very slowly and very subtlely Bobby began 
to bounce his bulging basket. The music that had been 
playing at lowest volume, stopped altogether. The crowd 
roar, long stilled, lost even its murmur. All was dead 
silence. Except for the sound of the sex organs sloshing 
in their nylon package.

Bobby's lemon balls and banana dick danced and mashed 
into one another in a Macedonian gambol. The big 
luscious fruit, raw and ready to eat, seeped its sweet 
nectar through sheer sequesterings. The rich tantalizing 
aroma of its ripeness perfumed the stagnant air from 
floor to ceiling and out to the four corners of the 
shabby auditorium. 

Although the stage lighting was simple, only a single 
spotlight ahead and a small group of gel-colored 
fresnels above, it seemed that an unearthly white light 
was coming from within the bag at Bobby's groin. His 
gently bouncing balls shimmered with a cabalistic light 
of their own.

"Oh ye gods above, no! No! No, I say!", Sinday cried to 
the icons in his drugged brain. "This is too wicked of 
these lusting fiends! May these execrable demons of 
temptation putrefy in their stench deep in the bowels of 
hell!

"No! This Satan will not conquer my kingdom! I will 
dispatch the devil and triumph! I will overcome and 
overpower him!"

But as he spoke the vows, Sidney's fingers stroked his 
thin shaft and ran along the tiny exposed arch of his 
tight ballbag. 

"Dear, sweet gods," he added, wistfully, "Must ye fail 
me now?" 

Clasping his hands behind his neck, Bobby spread his 
legs wide apart and began his celebrated spring-dance to 
the front of the stage. His basket answered his body's 
movements by bouncing and bounding flagrantly, a fallen 
coconut bobbing on the crests of a storm at sea. The 
bundled dick and balls pitched and heaved with 
seasickening tosses from thigh to thigh. The pouch 
bounded and rolled from flat stomach to swollen perineum 
like a buoyant but helpless victim of a tidal wave.

Dick, despite his stint as a rugged semened seaman, 
could still feel the bile rising inside as he followed 
the progress of the heaving yellow ball. He was angry. 
More: he was furious! He resented this guy on stage, 
with his trussed tubers the size of his own. All the 
more since, unlike his, these appeared to be real. 
Even through the amber haze encasing them, the fresh 
natural pinkness of the giant balls matched the pearly 
cast of the dancer's build. Riding on his own wave of 
self-hate, Dick's battered psyche slammed into the 
buoyant balls up ahead. He felt sick at the sight of 
them. He resented their pride and arrogance. The 
loathing built up deep in his own nuts until he feared 
they might crack.

Completely unaware of his actions, Dick raised his right 
arm and brought its fist down with a resounding jab to 
his poor defenseless balls. It struck like thunder, and 
he felt a bolt of lightning deep inside jolt him back to 
an agonizing reality. To hold back the scream in his 
brain, Dick bit down hard on the hand that slapped him. 

From his crow's nest perch above, Mainz had heard and 
seen everything. He immediately understood the 
motivation for the blow. He snickered out loud but 
resisted the temptation to mutter, "Face it, swabbie, ya 
either got it or ya ain't". The stale smell of booze 
wafting up from the guy had Mainz intuit the guy was a 
mean drunk. So the old guy held his tongue as well as 
his slobbering dickhead and meditated instead on big 
hairy cunts. It was a negative mantra to hold his dick 
off until the end of the show. But neither the prayer 
nor the finger shoved up into his tortured pisslit were 
doing much to stem the tide.

Across the way, Jivin' Jay and his preppie ball buddy 
had stopped their bilateral moves and were sitting 
spellbound, side by side, watching the rise and fall of 
the great yellow moon through the tree trunk thighs. 
Each man held the other's ballbag, like Greeks clutch 
prayerbeads, and rolled them over, unconsciously, 
between their fingers. Having already sampled the 
appetizers of each other's nuts, their mouths watered 
watching Bobby's bouncing bag like ravenous diners 
impatient for a taste of the main course.

Standing center stage, Bobby felt the sexual power he 
was unleashing. He had each guy there by the balls, and 
he knew it. He stopped his bounce.

Up in the control booth, Joe dropped his dick onto his 
balls and jumped at Bobby's cue. He canned the disco and 
hit the switch on the drumroll tape and set the volume 
to medium low. Beside him, Biff, the lightingman, tucked 
his stiff dick back under his console and reset the 
fresnels on Bobby to just the blues. 

Then, as he reached up for the follow spot to click the 
bastard pink gel in place, his foot slipped in a puddle 
of cum and he lost his balance. Luckily Joe's reflexes 
were aces. He caught his co-worker by his bare ass just 
in time to keep him from falling back and crushing the 
carton of raisinettes and M&M's stashed in the little 
room. Biff landed in Joe's lap and his droopy balls were 
speared by the soundman's dripping stiffer. He moaned 
and laughed. They both did. Things could have been 
worse. Who wants squashed M&M's?

Bobby basked in the pink glow. He unlocked his hands 
from behind his head and he plunged them straight out 
into the sea of deep blue fresnels. Every regular knew 
what would come next. 

One of them jumped out of his chair and made a dash for 
the john. He had a chronic nerve problem that made him 
super-sensitive and he'd forgotten his valiums. And he 
knew what was coming. And he knew he couldn't take it 
without a tranquillizer. He was hyper-ventilating and 
the scintillating scatoma of a coming migraine was 
already blinding Bobby from his sight. Worst of all, his 
gut was heaving and he could taste vomit spasming and 
starting to climb up his esophagus. 

He fell face first on the can and heaved as his pounding 
brain reran the sight of Bobby's big balls bouncing 
around. As he threw up, fantasizing, his dick shot off 
in his shorts.

Matty knew what was next too. 

"Fuck this shit!" he muttered to himself, "Fuck it! Fuck 
this fucking shit!" He tore open the button fly of his 
tight 501's and skinned the jeans and slimy jock beneath 
down to his ankles. Hadn't he suffered enough?, he asked 
himself. His poor miserable dick and mangled nuts had 
never hurt anybody, had they? Then why the fuck was he 
treating them like shit? 

He whined out loud and looked down at his poor crushed 
dick. It was patterned from the jock weave like a 
waffle. He nearly cried as it sprang sorely to life. He 
spread his bare legs wide--"Who the fuck gives a flying 
fuck anyway?"--and sighed with relief as his sticky 
ballskin slowly unpeeled itself and, fully unfurled, 
draped, liberated, onto his lap. 

Across the aisle, Old Man Mainz, bug-eyed and lizard-
tongued, felt the rumblings of a major heart attack. 
Fortunately he brought amyl nitrate for just such an 
emergency. He cracked one open and took a good deep 
whiff.

Bobby was statue still. Only his bulge pulsated 
slightly. He parted his viscous lips and turned his head 
slowly to each side. Then he stared straight ahead. His 
lips parted slightly.

"Wanna see somethin', fellahs?" he barely whispered.

A lust-drained chorus moaned, "Yeah!"

"Sorry, fellahs," Bobby taunted them, "My hearin' must 
be goin'. Did you guys say somethin'?"

The mob of hard-ons managed a firmer "Yeah!" in 
response.

"I saw your lips move. So ya musta said somethin'."

One great voice croaked a broken "Yeah!"

"Aw, c'mon, fellahs! Ain't ya had enough?"

The crowd summoned up enough communal energy to roar a 
steady chant of "Bobby's balls! Bobby's balls! Bobby's 
balls!" that tore through the theatre and shook its 
walls, clear down to the foundations of the building 
itself. 

On the first floor below the theatre, a waitress in the 
Howard Johnson's felt the vibrations like the tremors of 
a seven point oh on the Richter Scale. She teetered 
across the floor with two precariously balanced trays of 
burgers, fries and shakes high above her head and dumped 
them along with the ketchup and mustard onto the laps of 
a pair of couples from Jersey, enjoying a late night 
supper after "Cats".

Bobby eyed his victims warmly and sweetly announced: 
"Gentlemen, dinner is served!"

The big blond dancer took another trio of breaths, arced 
his arms in a classic biceps pose, and flexed his 
muscles. As he did, he also flexed the big bloated dick 
in his soggy pouch until it burst its bonds and muscled 
itself free. 

The posing strap blasted off his springy dick like a 
missile shot from a silo. It soared several yards in 
free flight, then touched down with a splat on the cute 
baby-faced preppie. In a flash, Jivin' Jay's mouth 
slapped over the pungent pouch that had crash-landed on 
his buddy's kisser. Then the integrated team of 
explorers lost themselves in a detailed investigation of 
the UFO. They swapped slobbering kisses as they sucked 
the juicy g-string in and out each other's mouths.

But not one soul in the crowd followed the pouch's 
flight. Nobody paid the slightest attention to where it 
landed. Not even Mainz. Because all eyes were on stage, 
as all hands were on dick.

Bobby's monster cannon rose, dripping goo thick as motor 
oil, and blew up and out to full nine inch splendor. His 
cannonballs below descended slowly and fatefully, as if 
lowered on a chain hoist, down to the bottom of the 
pearly-pink bag. Finally on full view, the contours and 
textures of each ball, its mass, weightiness and 
dimensions, and, most astoundingly, the individuality of 
each, came into clear focus. Alone, each was a beauty. 
Together, they were staggering!

Bobby feigned indifference to his artillery and went on 
with the classic posing routine. He smiled and flexed 
his way from one side of the stage to the other. Proud 
as a cat strutting its prey. Beaming like a Cheshire in 
Wonderland. 

He posed straight legged and rigidly formal. He posed, 
weight on one leg, casually and seductively. He posed 
kneeling on one knee. He rose and posed with his back to 
the audience and flexed his tight little buttocks. He 
pumped his triceps and lats. 

Meanwhile his stiff dick posed straight up and pumped 
out string upon string of preseminal fluids.

Bobby turned forward again and posed facing the crowd, 
dancing his pecs. All along, as he posed, he continued 
to ignore the glimmering threads weaving their way 
across his thighs, and ass, and abdomen, even up over 
his abs and forearms, and, of course, over and over his 
dick and balls themselves. 

Bobby was intent on the show of his muscles. However, 
the audience was, somehow, more concerned with the 
stageshow of his genitals on parade. 

His great nuts danced together and swayed gracefully, 
swinging each other along. Each ball pulled itself up on 
its long suspensory, then lowered itself down on the 
cord to the very bottom of the sac. The pair rose and 
fell like yoyos on a string. Interchanging moves, each 
passed the other mid-bag, kissed its mate, then went on 
its merry own way. But soon, lonely for the other's 
company, the two met at the dickbase and joined together 
to glide up and down, harmoniously, like Argentine 
tangoists with seamless coordination.

The sac itself, too, began a dance. In rhythm to the 
music it shrivelled tight against Bobby's groin and 
conglomerated the individual nuts into one solid sphere. 
The crumply skin surface turned the bulge into a craggy 
planet, spinning and whirling through the deep blue of 
Fresnel space. Then, the skin hung itself loose and 
smooth once again, to let the two golden globes inside 
exhibit their own traits and shine like Krugerands 
through the translucent purse-pouch of spun silk. 

Still smiling and still flexing, Bobby ambled 
seductively from one side of the platform to the other 
as his sac and its balls went on with their exhibition. 

Feeling the liquid sloshing around inside his great 
eggs, Bobby paused his routine directly in front of an 
exceptionally handsome Latino. Swarthy and full-lipped, 
he was in his mid-thirties with black eyes that sparked 
like the mouth of the big hooded dick sticking out of 
his fashionably baggy pants. As one big furry-backed 
hand pumped frantically on his uncut head and polished 
shaft, the other twisted and kneaded the hairy golf 
balls below.

Then, with the poise of a well-mannered waiter in a 
classy eatery, Bobby crossed one arm over his stomach 
and the other behind the small of his back. "Would the 
gentleman like a little liquid refreshment?", Bobby 
asked, with a studied, obsequious concern. Between 
dancing gigs, he'd paid his dues slinging hash. He'd 
waited on plenty of married guys who'd sign their tabs 
with one hand and cop a feel of his ass with the other, 
while their wives took a piss in the powder room.

The Latino didn't answer. All he could hear was the 
blood pounding louder and faster in his ears. All he 
could feel was his thick prick pulsing harder as he 
pumped it in his hand. All he could see was the stiff 
dick and gently swaying peaches swinging between the 
dancer's legs.

"Ah but yes," Bobby continued, despite the lack of 
response, "quite obviously the gentlemen is parched to 
the, shall we say, bone. The good man's put in a hard 
day's work and all the effort expended therein has 
positively dried him out. Very dangerous for the 
kidneys, you know. Here, sir, allow me to offer you a 
refreshing libation." 

With that, Bobby, still formally stanced, willed his 
drooling dick to shoot out a full and abundant spray of 
milky white cum. A good half pint measure arched from 
his pisslit into the Latino's gaping mouth.

"There, now! Wasn't that refreshing?", he asked in a 
tone of saccharine condescension. The Latino responded 
by shooting his own cum spray straight up into the air 
three feet like a geyser until gravity brought it back 
down with a sloshing crash onto his hairy nutbag.

As the crowd roared its approval, several men nearby 
dove into the Latino's lap for a sampling of leftovers. 
Again the crowd roared. But this time an eerie high-
pitched voice sliced through the din like a knife 
through butter.

"By all the gods on Olympus, no more! This has gone far 
enough!" 

Poor Sidney had finally snapped. Completely. 

He had shred the clothing from his body during Bobby's 
g-string fling, and it lay in tattered bits, scattered 
over the floor and his chair. Part of his left sleeve 
and the waistband of his BVD's still clung to him, but, 
otherwise, Sidney was totally bareassed. As he stood up 
on his seat in the back row, his tiny cock and balls 
were completely encrusted in cum and looked like a 
couple glazed doughnut nuggets. He shouted out once 
more, then jumped from his seat into the aisle. A 
coursing stream of shiny precum trailed between his 
legs, following after him as he stormed down the aisle. 

The spotlight picked him out and lit his way. In the 
bright pink beam his small framed body looked remarkably 
sensual. In fact, completely exposed, the innocuous 
teller looked sexy as hell. Even to Bobby. 

Though small and slightly-built, his body had a wiry 
muscularity and was extremely well defined. The chest 
and stomach were hard and sinewy and the ruby-red 
nipples perching on his sweet little pecs were larger 
around than the dancers and protruded more than an inch, 
with half that length extending like the sharp ends of 
knitting needles. 

His tight little ass rolled with grapefruit firmness at 
each stride and, surprisingly, the extremely undersized 
genitalia lunged and bobbed stiffly with an unexpectedly 
tantalizing carriage. Swollen and dripping, the little 
dick dangled like a jeweled lavaliere, and the cum-
covered balls below were set like two quite sizable 
baroque pearls.

As he jumped up onto the stage, his stiff little codicil 
stayed rigid and stood so straight and vertical it 
jeopardized his flat but tender stomach. Matty, in fact, 
gasped, afraid the thing would pierce the small guy's 
navel and rip him wide open as it slapped hard against 
his belly when his feet impacted with the platform. 
Below, the little bag held tight and unmoving. Like a 
salmon-pink rosebud, and just as small, it defied the 
wind's press but issued its heady essence into the air. 

"I too am sex! I am all things sexual!", he proclaimed, 
in a weightless high tenor, "I too offer the pure cream 
of life! My ancient dynasty came into being and 
flourished through the glorious seeds from genitalia 
like mine, like these I carry so proudly before me!"

No one laughed. No one spoke. Everyone was too stunned 
or stoned themselves to do either. Including Bobby.

Sindar the Magnificent strode forward and stood boldly 
only a hair's breadth before the open-mouthed, precum-
oozing dancer towering over him. With a superhuman 
effort of will, he forced the muscular giant, nearly 
twice his size, to fall on his knees before him.

"Worship, sirrah!", he shouted, in a voice that was 
gathering strength and dignity as he spoke, "Worship 
this, my dick of dicks! Feast on these, my balls of all 
balls! They will reward you with their riches! Come, 
suck, sirrah! Pay homage to your leader!"

Without hesitation, Bobby slurped and sucked the creamed 
nuts, gladly and greedily. The strict rule,"no 
reciprocation with the audience", now counted for 
nothing. Although, frankly, it wasn't consciously 
suspended. All the dancer thought of, was the hedonistic 
pleasure derived from chewing the honeyed bag. The 
sugary cum coating crusted on his lips as he supped. His 
own nuts blended their fluids with his prostate and, 
together, they soon brimmed out of the tiny slit in his 
fat dick.

Without knowing how, Old Man Mainz too, naked from the 
waist down, found himself stagebound. He couldn't recall 
leaving his seat or removing his pants and underwear. As 
he walked down the aisle, his sensitive low-hangers 
swung recklessly from knee to knee. As they alternated 
bounces from one hard cap to another, they flung forward 
and whooshed through the air like a twirling bola. 

The few brave men seated along the aisle who were not 
ducking blows from his bag, reached out for a feel of 
the flying hazard. The alluring beauty of Mainz's 
elongated bag and its profiled contents--the solid eggs 
swinging free at the bottom--made the potential danger, 
for the intrepid, well worth the risk taken. 

Mainz tried to ignore the copped feels. He pulled 
himself free, excruciatingly, from each tight grasp as 
he kept his sights set on Bobby's sleek bag bouncing up 
there on stage. But the old guy's firm determination all 
came to nothing. His objective went unrealized. Waylaid 
by a small mob, he was lifted off his feet and carried 
to a mirrored side wall where his straining body was 
pressed against its reflection. The old man struggled 
and screamed. Hopelessly. Futilely. The fiends worked 
singly and in teams: pulling, slapping, squeezing, 
stretching and sucking his long, exposed, defenseless 
bag.

Soon, abetted by another band of maniacs, the whole 
throng swarmed over Mainz like greedy, grasping ants on 
a cube of sugar. They forced themselves on his raw, 
manhandled scrotum, pinching it, pulling it, and gnawing 
on it without letup. The, by now, constantly-climaxing 
old man no longer had any strength left to beg for 
mercy. With up to fifteen of them setting upon his 
savory sac at one time, poor old Mainz was beyond 
screaming, even beyond a mere heart attack. He was numb, 
senseless, driven to the depths of depravity and plunged 
to drown in the unexplored depths of a bottomless sexual 
nirvana.

Dick, too, had left his seat and stood out in the open. 
He'd dropped his bells and was wearing his peacoat open 
over his turtleneck. His spit-shined shoes glared in the 
blue light as he jumped up on stage. With a brazenness 
he'd felt before only in his fantasies, he strode the 
length of the stage apron with his overripe, deep red 
tomatoes lobbing about in delicious pain. He paused 
every now and then to give the pair a few good sideways 
swings as he showed them to everyone in sight. He 
presented them as a movable feast to the famished, who 
quite literally fell all over one another in their 
clamor for a bite to eat.

But as each voracious would-be diner made a lunge for 
the dangling fruit, he was kicked away. Guys were booted 
in the mouth or punted in the belly and balls. Dave was 
still mad and he was still pretty drunk. And mean as 
ever, or meaner. 

As each pigeon dropped to the floor, another climbed 
over him, only to be swiftly and painfully dispatched in 
turn. Dave loved the heady sense of power. He relished 
every blow and every moan. He laughed out loud as he 
hefted his unreachable goals in both hands. He wished he 
could hold them high above his head in triumph. Having 
just witnessed Mainz's colossal bag, he figured it was 
something that he too could possess. With a little time 
and a lot of good hard work.

"Take a good look at these big beauties, fellahs", Dick 
shouted to the masses, "I'm gonna get these guys the 
size of that faggot dancer's melon ass! That other 
faggot before, I mean, not this one making love to the 
peanuts behind me! 

"Ain't these gonads somethin' ta behold, laddies? But ya 
ain't seen nothin' yet! I'm gonna get these guys the 
size of two ripe musk melons! Yes, sir, watermelons 
even! Yeah! Prizewinners! Maybe I'll even enter 'em in 
the county fair. And watch the other whimpy little-nut 
faggots like you drop their fuckin' teeth outta their 
mouths!
 
Come on, dickheads, try an' take a taste of my big juicy 
tomatoes! What the fuck you waitin' for, you little-
baby-balled bozos! Don't you wanna know what these 
sweet, juicy things taste like?"

"Sure do, asshole!"

The voice boomed out from the back of the house. From a 
big, burly Irishman who entered late, but early enough 
to catch the start of the orgy. Like Dick, he liked his 
liquor. And he too was madder than hell. 

Last night, his old lady threw him out for falling in 
the front door, pissed, one time too many. He had to 
sleep in the truck, and woke up with a whopper of a 
hangover. And to make bad even worse, he bashed his head 
on the bottom of the steering wheel getting up. A fresh 
white bandage covered the stitches on his forehead. The 
docs in the emergency room gave him painkillers. He 
downed them with boilermakers all day and evening long 
until he felt the need for a little sex or a little 
brawl, or both. Then he staggered his way to the Rialto 
and was glad to find an asshole who'd fill the bill. 
Nicely.

"Ya wanna know somethin', big buddy?"

Dick dropped his balls and cupped his hands over his 
eyes trying to see the dude yelling up at him. It was 
too dark. Dick was starting to feel scared. He wasn't 
sure whether to answer or not. He could feel his sac 
start to shrivel. There was a bit of dead silence, then 
the voice bellowed again. 

"I'm fuckin' sick of potatoes! Night and day, all my 
fuckin' old lady serves up is fuckin' potatoes! I'm 
awful hungry for somethin' else! I've been standin' here 
with an awful appetite and with my stomach growlin' like 
shit for the longest time! I'd be mighty glad to take 
you up on your offer, mister! Yeah! I'm think I'm jes' 
gonna have me a good taste a them hothouse tomatoes you 
got! Hope they're as juicy as they look!"

Dick strained harder to see. Suddenly, a red-headed 
Celt, mustachioed, bearded and about 6'6", 280, and 
built like a brick shithouse, pushed his way into the 
light. He was wearing a Mets jacket and cap. And nothing 
else. 

He was hung like a stallion and balled like a bull. All 
of his equipment buried deep in thick fiery shag. As he 
muscled his way through to Dick's balls, his own fuzzy 
giants were groped and mauled by anybody who could get 
his hands on them. The guy didn't mind. Happened every 
time he wrestled. Used to happen all the time back in 
Nam in the Green Berets. Everybody always wanted at 'em. 
And that was cool. He laughed and let the boys play. 
Helped keep his mind cool and his eyes on his goal, the 
way it used to keep him clearheaded and hot to bash some 
Cong ass.

Dick was scared shitless as the big guy cleared a path 
to the apron's edge. He felt his knees start to knock, 
and licked the sweat gathering on his upper lip. He also 
felt, despite his own better instincts, his balls start 
to relax again and fall back down to the bottom of their 
bag. And swing. Swing slowly and temptingly on their 
own, like ripe fruit in a breeze, begging to be plucked.

He wanted to run but his damn legs just wouldn't move. 
The "little guys" standing between the two giant men 
parted like waves on the Red Sea. Before Dick could 
think the word no, the brawny Irishman was standing, 
hands on hips, big dick stiff and dripping, at the foot 
of the stage. His face was eye level with Dick's balls. 
He licked his lips and laughed even lustier. He looked 
into Dick's eyes and exchanged the look of terror up 
there for a shit-eating grin of his own. 

Dick stopped breathing altogether. His heart stopped 
pumping. His cold feet glued with sweat to the stage 
floor. He couldn't believe what he was seeing! There, 
smiling up at him, were the biggest, whitest teeth he'd 
ever seen in his life! And even worse, they were razor 
sharp. And they were jagged and pointed. Vicious man-
eating leopard teeth! Holy shit, this guy could eat him 
alive!

"Your tomatoes look even better up close, man! Really 
get my saliva flowin'! So round and red and firm! Man oh 
man, do they look good!", the Irishman roared, "And, 
buddy, I'm so starved, I feel like I haven't eaten for a 
week!"

He reached out for Dick's balls and hefted their weight. 
He lifted them up so high, Dick was forced to stand on 
his tiptoes. But the guy wanted to show off his dinner 
platter before sailing into it.

"Pretty nice fixin's, huh, guys? You should feel 'em. 
Real firm and meaty. Hell, my mouth is waterin'! I hope 
you fellahs will excuse me for eatin' alone, but I'm 
feelin' mean hungry, if ya catch my drift!"

They did. So did Dick. He felt sick to his stomach and 
seated on cloud nine, both at the same time. The 
Irishman dropped his balls with a thud and if his feet 
weren't glued in place, Dick would have fallen down 
dead. The Celt grabbed hold of the outsides of Dick's 
thighs and stared straight as his balls.

"Chow time!"

The Irishman practically unhinged his mouth like a snake 
as he took a whole half of the nutsac in his mouth. He 
sucked on it a little, then, spit it out and licked it 
like an all-day sucker.

"Uh-huh, these are goooood!" he drawled out. "Damn 
goooood! Hey, you guys, they're salty like tomatoes, but 
real sweet too, like big ol' Georgia peaches!"

Dick told himself it was just a bad dream. He got 
nightmares now and then and a couple were real as hell, 
just like this one. He'd wake up soon. He'd open his 
eyes and everything would be all right.

He opened his eyes alright, but everything was far from 
alright. The redhead's strong sharp teeth tore into the 
blood-red tomatoes and chewed 'em good. Dick screamed 
and howled like a mountain lion in a bear trap as his 
tender balls became a banquet for a beggar. He'd never 
felt pain so good, as the big, bloated wonders between 
his thighs became more than mere food for thought.

Through it all, Bobby knelt and squatted clumsily center 
stage since his knees were sliding around in his own cum 
and he was having a hard time keeping his balance. He 
heard none of the screaming or cheering behind him. For 
the last half hour or more he was hopelessly, happily 
lost in lapping load after load of Sidney's never-ending 
cum storm. The dancer basked in the downpour, and rubbed 
it over his face and neck.
 
His own dick and balls--and his entire body, as well-- 
were under the constant siege of hoards of slobbering, 
ravenous man-eaters. He felt none of the tongues and 
fingers licking and probing.

But still feeling every inch and ounce the distant star, 
Bobby's subconscious satisfied his obligations to his 
public by giving each fan his feel and his fill. And 
yet, strangely, the more he gave, the more he felt like 
giving! The more of his juice he shot, the more he 
brewed inside his balls. 

"It's like love," he thought, "the more you give, the 
more you get!" 

Bobby was full of love! 

He felt hornier and lustier than he ever had before. He 
felt more loved and loving than he'd ever thought 
possible. And so, he sucked and kissed the candied 
almonds in his mouth with pure relish and delight. And 
with due fondness and respect. They had taught him, 
finally, the meaning of love.

He looked up at Sidney, so regal and proud. He looked 
like a god, not a man. Tears welled in Bobby's eyes as 
he shouted up to his idol, "Thank you! Thank you with 
all my heart! I love you as I've never loved anyone! I 
offer myself to you totally! Forever!" 

Sidney didn't respond. He kept his eyes shut and showed 
no reaction to the voice of the animal between his legs. 
After all, the thing was merely expressing his 
reverence. It was only right and natural. It was only to 
be expected. 

Bobby forced his mouth off Sidney's dick and balls so 
that he could once again gaze in wonder at the beauty of 
his precious gems. These little pearls on his 
fingertips, could they be his forever? And this 
shimmering little lavaliere dick standing above, could 
he adore it like this the rest of his life? 

Bobby took it once again into his mouth and sucked. And 
once again it flowed a steady stream of nectar that 
soothed the dryness in his throat while never quite 
quenching his growing thirst.

Bobby's body convulsed and spasmed. His famous bouncing 
balls shot up into his groin. He sweated and shivered as 
blast upon blast of semen shot from his slit onto 
Sidney's slim, sexy legs and into the waiting, open 
mouths of Bobby's admirers as well. 
There was plenty for everyone. Bobby's love poured out 
and replenished itself endlessly. The night would never 
be over.

Backstage in the common dressing room, Wally was 
standing in front of the broken mirror, brushing his 
hair. He felt damned good. And proud. He was feeling 
smug and self-satisfied as all get-out. He liked what he 
saw and knew that everybody else did too. Maybe even 
more.

He stared back at his handsome reflection.

"That made seven tonight, old buddy! Seven! You know 
what that means, don't you, old buddy? That means that 
just one more, Wally, old buddy, and you'll not only 
equal but top that little shithead's record!

"And as well you should, my love!"

He kissed his mirrored self and smiled with longing at 
the imprint of his lips. Then he licked the spot fondly 
and kissed it again. 

He stood back to bask in his full glory. He undid his 
jeans and lowered them so he could watch his big stiff 
boner spring up full and solid. And splendid. He felt a 
longing for it that surpassed even his usual self-lust. 

"There can't be any doubt. None at all."

He felt the cum rise from his tight nuts and make its 
convoluted way through the maze of penile tubing. As it 
finally splashed itself on his mirrored lips, Bobby, 
overcome with his overwhelming self-love roared:

"You're the fuckin' fairest in the whole fuckin' land!"

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 27