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▲ 5 r/BallbustingStories

My Poor Balls: Wednesday: An Unfortunate Failure (Recovery)

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 33: Wednesday: An Unfortunate Failure (Recovery)

My balls had swollen terribly overnight. The relentless abuse they had taken—Monday’s thirty-nine kicks plus penalties and especially Tuesday’s prison-yard chain beating—had left them in a truly sorry state. All day at work they had throbbed with my heartbeat, hot and heavy and tender, the skin stretched shiny and tight over deep purple bruises. Every step sent a dull, nauseating ache rolling through my gut. When I finally walked through the door I still did my duty. Shoes, pants, and underwear came off. I dropped to my knees in the entryway, spread my thighs, and thrust the bruised, broken orbs forward to accept the daily ritual.

My wife came to me, already smiling the way she does when she’s thinking about making the balls suffer. “Since those naughty little balls bruised up so pretty last night,” she said cheerfully, “I was thinking we should maybe add a few kicks today to make sure they don’t start expecting mercy in the—”

She trailed off the moment she saw them.

“Oh honey… the state of those balls is a bit concerning.”

She knelt down in front of me, her expression softening in a way I almost never saw during these moments. Her hand moved gently—rare, careful gentleness—and cupped my swollen sack, testing how the heavy orbs moved. Even that light touch made me cringe and suck in a sharp breath. They felt huge, fever-hot, and far too fragile.

“I love you,” I said quickly, desperate to fill the air with something other than complaints about my battered testicles.

“Honey… I love you too.” She said it softly, warmly. And nothing followed.

No crushing squeeze. No vise of her fingers grinding my orbs. No ritual flash of pain to punctuate the words she had spoken to me thousands of times before. The words simply hung there, naked and wrong. For more than a decade every single “I love you” had come with immediate, deliberate agony. The absence hit me like a separate ache, deeper than anything physical. My stomach twisted. She’s sparing them. She’s sparing me. But it felt like breaking one of the only sacred rules we both lived by. Panic bloomed hot in my chest. If the balls stay too weak for too long, will the sessions start to slip away? Will she get tired of waiting for them to heal?

“Please, I don’t want to fail you.”

She gently caressed my hair, reading the fear on my face. “You aren’t failing me, sweetheart. It’s these stupid, slow-to-heal balls that are the problem. We will punish them properly for taking so long to recover, don’t you worry. But right now you are still my good boy.”

“But… but… please!” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Tears were already spilling down my cheeks. “I can take it. The balls can take it. Just a normal count—please don’t skip because of me—”

“Husband.” Her voice sharpened into that familiar tone of absolute authority, the one that always made my stomach drop in the best and worst ways. She tilted my chin up so I had to meet her eyes. “Who decides when the balls are done getting attention?”

“You do,” I whispered meekly.

“That’s right. And right now I’ve decided they can’t take any more tonight. Tomorrow they are on light duty—no welcome-home ritual today or tomorrow. That is my decision and it is final.”

I wiped at my eyes, the panic still churning. She was protecting them. Protecting me. But the knot in my chest refused to loosen. It still felt like I had let her down.

She stood, smoothing her skirt, and gave me a small, playful smile that didn’t quite hide the sadist underneath. “Now go make me dinner, but keep those naughty troublemakers out where I can see them. I want to monitor how they move while you work. And if they start looking any worse, we may have to punish them even harder later for being such delicate little things.”

I tried to surge to my feet. The sudden movement sent a fresh, sickening throb through my swollen sack and I swayed for a second, steadying myself against the wall. I persevered anyway, walking naked from the waist down toward the kitchen, balls hanging heavy and obvious, every step a dull reminder of how badly they had failed her.

Behind me I heard her soft chuckle. “Look at them swinging like that… poor swollen nuts. They really do bruise so pretty.”

I felt the familiar cocktail of shame, love, and desperate need to please her settle deep in my gut.

And I loved her so much it hurt almost as badly as the balls did.

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

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u/CBTOnly — 14 hours ago
▲ 10 r/BallbustingStories

My Poor Balls: Tuesday – The Chain's Revenge (Beating)

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 32: Tuesday – The Chain's Revenge (Beating)

We had a lovely dinner. My wife was very high energy, telling me all about her work and family. I was more subdued, both struggling with the ball pain from the welcome-home kicks and dreading the coming punishment of my balls for breaking the chain. My balls throbbed with my heartbeat. I ate lightly, aware that tonight’s punishment was likely to be extreme enough to perhaps cause vomiting. Since we upped the severity of our daily ballbusting sessions I had generally started eating less, and losing weight. My wife had no such worries, and ate with vigor. When she served dessert, she warned me, “Almost time.” I passed on dessert.

I cleared the plates, and as I did she said, “It’s time. Meet me in the living room.” I walked there filled with fear and dread, knelt, and waited.

She started with the humbler—wooden bar behind my thighs, uncomfortable in any situation, but with my balls already swollen and sore they suffered even more. She pulled them through the slot until they thrust out behind me, protruding vulnerably, the tension preventing me from standing or lying flat. I gave a low mewling whine from the pain of the position. And this was just prep. Then she had me lean forward so my wrists were next to my ankles and zip-tied them—left to left, right to right. Forehead mashed into the carpet. Ass up. No escape. My balls dangled behind me, humbler-locked, completely defenseless targets.

She held up the broken chain, bent links glinting. “This? This was one of my best chains. But the balls broke it, and so must be punished.” She wasn’t wrong. During Sunday’s auction she had given me the chain, a parachute, and a 45-pound weight and told me to hold it up by my testicles for ten minutes. She had clearly known the chain would break, because she had another heavier one ready, but that didn’t matter. If she thought my testicles deserved punishment, then they deserved punishment.

“The balls should be in jail for their crimes, so tonight it’s prison-yard justice.” She produced an old gym sock, dropped the chain in—clink-clink—knotted the bottom tight. Not soap-heavy, but heavy enough to terrify me. She swung it experimentally, the chain coiled inside, swinging like a flail. “Welcome to the yard, inmate. Your nuts owe a debt.”

She stepped back. “Rules: you gotta keep silent. If you scream and the guards come, I might have to shiv you.”

The air shifted as she swung the flail. The sock-wrapped chain cracked center-mass into my dangling nuts with a sickening crunch. My balls flattened hard against the humbler’s wood, the weight of the heavy links pushing them deep into the bruised flesh. A shockwave of nauseating ache exploded outward, radiating straight up into my gut like someone had punched me from the inside with a brick. My vision whited out. Teeth-grinding pressure, like the orbs were being slowly pulped between two slabs of concrete. I wanted to scream. Instead my mouth opened, closed, and I forced out a strangled, “Thank you.”

The chain swung again. I tried to flinch but the zip ties and humbler held me perfectly exposed. Fresh agony detonated in my already-swollen sack. Waves of pain radiated from the impact like a tsunami briefly overwhelming me. My right leg started shaking uncontrollably and I tried not to pass out. Barely succeeded. The deep ache settled heavier, thicker, turning my guts to liquid. My balls deserve this, I thought. I love her so much for making sure they get it.

“Thank you,” I gasped.

Then the next swing connected, angled hard into the left ball. The chain’s weight mashing the already-tender left testicle against the unyielding wood. Nerves lit up electric. Splitting, crushing ache bloomed hot and deep, stealing my breath completely. I jerked against the restraints, forehead scraping carpet, but there was nowhere to go. Another wave of nausea rolled through me, thick and sour. My mind swam in the suffering. “Thank you.”

The flail came slower this time, deliberate. The sock wrapped both balls, yanked back, and the chain links gripped deep before releasing. My sack squeezed, stretched, then released into a blazing throb that rolled up my ribs and into my throat. The weight of every link left its mark. Sweat stung my eyes. The ache sank deeper, thicker, as if every link was slowly reshaping the soft meat of my sack from the inside. I lost touch with thoughts of where and when for a second and just endured.

The sock-wrapped chain whipped under the right ball only, lifted, and dropped with vicious precision. The stretch amplified everything; skin felt like it was tearing, fresh pulses of pain blooming under the surface. I jerked hard, but the ties and humbler gave me nowhere to go. Just take it. Bile rose hot in my throat. The pain spiked sharper, meaner, and my whole body trembled.

She hovered the sock for a long second, letting the anticipation chew on me. “Feel that, inmate? Yard rules: anticipation’s half the sentence.” Then she slammed it home. My balls pancaked completely, rebounded, and the throb-throb-throb hit like dying hearts trying to beat through concrete. I hated them in that moment—these sensitive little orbs that always overwhelmed my ability to control myself during our sessions—but I loved her more. She was pushing me to grow, and learn to better control my body. The world narrowed to white-hot pulses. “Thank you,” I whispered.

The chain swung again, slower, letting the ache build between impacts. “Snitches get stitches,” she cooed, never breaking character but still sounding like my wife underneath. “The balls didn’t keep up their parts of the bargain, and now they pay.” The sock slammed in and ground both balls flat. My sack mashed wider under the weight. Fresh nausea surged. My legs quivered violently. I was losing myself to the endless torment, my balls angry and red, swollen, and completely undefended. “Thank you,” I sobbed.

The flail came again, bringing with it more brutality. The sock thudded heavy into my nut meat and my legs tried to buckle; the humbler dug painfully deeper. I was drowning. Pain was all there was. Every breath came ragged and wet. The deep ache bloomed wider, heavier, like my guts were being slowly twisted into knots.

She crouched beside me for a moment, running a finger lightly over the rapidly swelling sack. “Swelling up so pretty already. Turning nice and black. These balls really do bruise like they’re trying to impress me.” She flicked one swollen orb—sharp sting on top of the deep ache.

I hissed. “Thank you.”

“Ten more,” she announced cheerfully. “The yard’s not done making an example of these troublemakers yet. The other inmates need to know the price if they break one of my best chains, so those balls are going to pay bad enough everyone learns that lesson.”

The flail came in low, gripping the underside of my sack. Fresh electric fire shot straight up my spine. My vision tunneled and the room faded; I could only feel the crushing pressure grinding deeper into my core.

Another swing crushed the left ball flat. The ache exploded outward in fresh, gut-wrenching waves, deeper and heavier than before, like someone was grinding my testicles into paste against the wood. My stomach heaved. I tried not to retch.

The next connected with the right, grinding slow and mean. Skin stretched to its limit. The pain rolled through me in long, nauseating pulses that made my whole body shake. I felt my balls swelling even more, hot and tight and bruised.

Then both balls rolled under the weight again, the chain rattling angrily inside the sock as it connected. My forehead ground harder into the carpet. Tears leaked from my eyes. I could barely form thoughts anymore.

I flinched hard before the next blow even landed. My legs twitched involuntarily against the humbler.

She stopped immediately. “Penalty. Five extra for that little dance, inmate. Look at these rebellious balls trying to squirm away—naughty, naughty.”

“Take a few breaths before the next one, honey,” she added, almost sweetly.

I tried to find breath, find consciousness, find reality that went beyond my throbbing abused testicles. I did breathe, and I didn’t pass out, but my world mostly stayed existing in an abstraction of testicular suffering.

I regained enough awareness to whisper, “Thank you.”

The next swing was vicious. My balls were crushed flat, the heavy links driving straight into already bruised core. My balls compressed brutally and the pain detonated like a bomb going off inside my sack. Waves of agony radiated outward, crashing over me again and again. My right leg kicked uselessly.

The chain swung again. The weight drove even deeper, turning the entire sack into one solid knot of white-hot torment. My mind blanked out completely, swallowed by a black, crushing void. I just floated there in raw suffering, surfacing only when the sock filled with chain crushed deeply into my sensitive ball meat once more. The sensation dragged my soul under again.

Another terrible blow landed, vicious and low. My balls pancaked harder than before, the links grinding against bruised, swollen meat. Nausea surged so strong I dry-heaved, stomach clenching uselessly. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the carpet.

The flail came again. The world narrowed to a white-hot tunnel of pain. My whole body shook uncontrollably now. I could feel my balls turning black and huge behind me, throbbing like they were about to burst.

The final penalty swing was brutal, the chain slammed home with final, merciless force, burying deep into the mangled flesh as though it meant to stay. I screamed despite the rule, the sound ripping out of me before I could stop it. Pain swallowed everything—time, place, thought. There was only the endless, crushing ache and the desperate need to endure for her.

I collapsed as much as the restraints allowed—face grinding into the carpet, ass still high, balls throbbing behind me like dying stars pulsing with every heartbeat. Tears soaked the fibers beneath me. My breath came wet and ragged.

She knelt beside me, gentle now. “Debt paid,” she murmured, easing the humbler off with careful hands. The sudden stretch as the pressure released was somehow worse for a moment, fresh ache blooming hot. She cut the zip ties and I stayed down, unable to move.

Her hand gripped my butt. I felt her shudder and heard two harsh, ragged breaths. She was coming — hard — but in my position I couldn’t see it, and in my current state I couldn’t even comprehend it.

She leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear. “I love you.” Her hand wrapped around my ruined sack and squeezed—fresh flare of deep, crushing pain that made my vision spark. “And these stupid, failed balls? I love them too.” She kissed my sweaty temple and whispered, “We are done for tonight, but tomorrow we will hurt them again, so rest up.”

Under the constant, bone-deep ache I felt a strange, fierce pride for surviving the ordeal. Fear of tomorrow already coiled in my gut. And love—always love—for the woman who knew exactly how to break me and still keep me whole.

I whispered one last time, “Thank you.”

She was already humming in the kitchen again, planning exactly how much worse tomorrow was going to be if the balls didn’t behave.

And I loved her. I loved her so much.

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

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u/CBTOnly — 7 days ago
▲ 12 r/BallbustingStories

My Poor Balls: Tuesday – Rules Are Rules (Kicking)

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 31: Tuesday – Rules Are Rules (Kicking)

I walked through the door at the usual time, heart already hammering in my chest. My balls were still a disaster from the last two days—swollen, deep purple in places, the skin stretched tight and shiny. Every step sent little jolts of leftover ache through them. I didn’t hesitate. I stripped everything from the waist down right there in the entryway, and dropped to my knees. Legs spread wide, back straight, hands locked behind me, I pushed my battered testicles forward like the daily offering they were.

My wife appeared from the living room, still in her work clothes, hair up in that loose bun she wears when she’s had a long day. She stopped a few feet away and let her eyes drift down to my exposed, throbbing sack. A small, dangerous smile tugged at her lips.

“Hi honey,” she said sweetly. “Rough day?”

“At least I’m home”

She grinned predatorily.  “Well then, do you remember what day it is?”

“Day forty,” I answered, voice steadier than I felt. 

She tilted her head, that playful glint already in her eyes. “Oh sweetie… tonight’s punishment night. Those naughty balls broke my nice chain on Sunday and then made you collapse like a little bitch yesterday. I think we can skip the welcome home kicks and go straight to the real fun after dinner.”

My stomach tightened. Part of me wanted to agree—anything to spare my ruined testicles even a little—she was testing me.  I knew it.  I had to pass.  Had to please her.

I swallowed hard and looked up at her. “No. Rules are rules. I just came home from work.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Even on punishment nights?”

“Even on punishment nights,” I said firmly, making sure my sensitive balls were as vulnerable as possible. “I promised I would take my training like a good husband, and that is what I plan to be.” 

For a moment she just stared at me, then she let out a soft laugh and shook her head. “All right, mister stickler. We’ll do the ritual. But we’re changing the rules tonight. I will only keep kicking as long as you stay in perfect position. The second you collapse, close your legs, or try to protect those pathetic balls… I stop. We’re done. No more kicks, no reward, nothing. Understood?”

I nodded quickly, already regretting my big mouth but refusing to back down. “I understand. I’ll stay in position. I promise.”

She smiled wider, almost sweetly. “Good boy. Present them nicely then.”

I spread my knees even wider, arched my back a little, and pushed my swollen, tender balls as far forward as I could. They hung heavy and vulnerable, every bruise from the mallet and the endless Sunday “light training” still screaming.

The first kick landed clean and firm—her bare foot smashing straight into both orbs with that familiar meaty thwack. Pain detonated deep in my gut, hot and nauseating.

“One,” I gasped, forcing my legs to stay open.

She kept the rhythm steady and strong, exactly like a normal welcome home. Kick after solid kick rocked my balls, each impact sending fresh waves of agony rolling through my already damaged sack.

“Five… Six… Seven…” My voice started cracking by eight, but I kept my hands locked behind my back and my knees locked wide. By fifteen my thighs were trembling and sweat was rolling down my back, but I held position.

“Seventeen… Eighteen… Nineteen…”

At twenty she stopped, breathing a little harder, and looked down at my quivering form with mock pride. “Halfway already. You’re doing so well holding still for me. I think that earns you your reward, don’t you?”

I could barely nod. My balls felt twice their normal size, throbbing viciously with every heartbeat.

She stepped in close, lifted her blouse and bra, and let those heavy, beautiful breasts spill free—big dark areolas, the ones I adored more than anything. “Alexa, one-minute timer.”

Her hands wrapped around my sack without warning. Thumbs dug straight into the worst bruises, squeezing with that perfect, practiced pressure that turned lingering ache into existential crisis. I locked eyes on her breasts even as my vision blurred.

“I love you,” she whispered.

The moment the words left her mouth she crushed down harder, grinding her thumbs deep into the meat of my testicles, searching for the most tender spots to apply pressure. Pain exploded outward—sharp, crushing, nauseating. My whole body shook violently but I forced my knees to stay open, hands still behind my back.

“I… I love you too,” I choked out.

Thirty seconds in I was trembling so badly I had to lean forward and grip her hips just to stay upright. The timer finally chimed. She released me and stepped back, admiring the way my balls hung even lower now, dark and swollen.

“Good boy,” she cooed, stroking my hair once. Then her voice dropped into something much crueler. “Now… let’s finish the last twenty. And since you were so insistent on following the rules tonight, I’m going to make sure the balls really feel how much I appreciate your dedication.”

The next kick came without warning and it was nothing like the first twenty.

It was vicious.

Her foot slammed upward with brutal force, lifting my entire body an inch off the floor. Both balls compressed violently against my pelvis and the pain was absurd—blinding, like someone had driven a car over them. I screamed, but somehow my legs stayed open.

“Twenty-one!” I wailed.

The next kick was even harder. It landed with a wet, meaty crack that echoed in the entryway. My balls flattened brutally and the agony detonated so intensely that my vision went pure white. My knees buckled completely. I collapsed sideways, curling around my destroyed sack, gasping and retching even though there was nothing in my stomach.

I tried desperately to push myself back up, but my legs wouldn’t obey. My hands flew down on pure instinct, cupping my throbbing, traumatized balls for half a second before I jerked them away again.

My wife clicked her tongue, sounding almost disappointed. “Oh honey… you broke position. That means we’re done.”

I lay there on the floor, panting, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, balls pulsing with fresh, vicious pain. “Please… I can keep going,” I begged weakly.

“No,” she said calmly, already smoothing her blouse back down. “Rules are rules, remember? You insisted on the ritual, and the rule tonight was simple: stay in position or I stop. You collapsed. You protected them. So we’re finished.”

She crouched down beside me and gently brushed the sweaty hair off my forehead, her voice softening just a little. “You did so well for the first twenty. I’m proud of you for trying so hard… even if you weren’t able to take it all the way through like a real man would have.”

I stayed on the floor another long minute, breathing through the rolling waves of agony, feeling the deep, lingering throb that promised tomorrow would be even worse.

Eventually she helped me to my feet, kissed my cheek, and said cheerfully, “Come on. Let’s get some dinner. You’re going to need your strength. The balls still have a proper punishment coming… and I think they are going to be quite surprised by what is in store for them.”

As we walked to the kitchen—me still naked from the waist down, balls swinging heavily with every painful step—I felt that familiar twisted mix of fear, love, and shameful pride.

Rules made her happy.  At least we have rules.

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

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u/CBTOnly — 8 days ago
▲ 17 r/BallbustingStories

My Poor Balls: Monday – Welcome Home (Kicking)

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 30: Monday – Welcome Home (Kicking)

I walked through the door and without a word I stripped everything from the waist down, and sank to my knees in the entryway. Legs spread wide, back straight, swollen testicles pushed forward like the offering they were. They were still a mess from yesterday—purple, shiny, hanging lower than usual, every inch tender and hot. Sunday’s “light training” had turned them into something that felt half again their normal size. I could already feel my pulse beating in them.

My wife appeared from the kitchen, still in her work blouse, sleeves rolled up, that soft, dangerous smile on her face. She stopped a few feet away and tilted her head.

“What day is it, honey?”

“Day thirty-nine,” I answered, voice steady even though my stomach was already tightening.

She hummed thoughtfully, eyes drifting down to my battered sack. “Mmm. After what those poor balls went through yesterday, I was thinking we could be nice and only do twenty. You could earn a quick look at my tits for that. Sound reasonable?”

I swallowed. The smart answer was yes. The right answer—the one that made her happy—was the one that hurt more.

“I’m going to take all thirty-nine kicks,” I said, “and I’m going to kiss them.”

Her eyebrows lifted in that playful, mock-surprised way she does when I overbid. “Thirty-nine? Oh, sweetie. You really are determined to make the balls suffer tonight, but if you insist” She says with a grin she can’t quite hide, then she steps closer, bare foot flexing. “All right. Present them nicely.”

The first kick landed before I was ready. It always does. Her instep smashed straight into my already bruised left testicle and the pain detonated like a flashbang—deep, nauseating, radiating up into my gut. My vision starred. I fought the instinct to curl, to close my legs, to protect what she owned.

“One,” I gasped.

Kick, my wife’s foot impacted my sensitive nuts again radiating pain outward causing me to involuntarily spasm.   “Two.”
Kick, a 3rd brutal kick landed.  The pain nearly overwhelmed me, but my training held, and my legs remained spread, my balls remained dangling and obscenely vulnerable.   “Three.”

Kick. It briefly blasted my consciousness into space, my mind desperately coping with brutality that it was not equipped to process.  I said “Four.”

By the fifth my voice was already cracking. Yesterday’s mallet strikes had left the skin so thin that every impact felt like it was landing on exposed nerve—sharp, electric, like someone was twisting a knife inside. I kept my hands locked behind my back and forced my knees wider.

“Five.”

She didn’t let the rhythm break. “How was your day, honey?” Kick.  Her words were part of my training, an attempt to insure that my mind remained present, and didn’t separate from my body during the moments of overwhelming suffering.  

“Six—my… my day was..  Was fine.” Kick. “Seven.” The next one caught both balls dead center and my breath whooshed out—stomach cramping, bile rising. “Eight… one of the regional directors called an emergency meeting right at four-thirty.”

Kick. “Nine.” I had to blink hard to clear the tears. “Ten.”

She gave the tenth a little extra snap, the way she does when work talk turns her on. “Oh? What about?”

I tried to keep my voice level. “Eleven… they’re talking about cutting our team’s budget again. Twelve.” The kick drove my balls up against my pelvis and I saw white—nausea rolling through me like a wave. “Thirteen… it’s not even my fault and I’m the one who’s going to have to tell everyone.”

She made a sympathetic little tsk sound, but the fourteenth kick was harder, deliberate. My legs buckled for half a second before I locked them again—thighs quivering, sweat breaking out cold.

“Fourteen,” I croaked.

“Poor thing,” she cooed, lining up the next one. “All that stress at the office…” She lined up her next kick “but at least you get to come home to this.” The kick landed with a west plop into my abused gonads.

I managed a shaky laugh through the pain—”yeah, lucky me. Fifteen.”

Kick.  “Sixteen”.  Kick “Seventeen”.  Kick. “Eightteen”.  Kick. The brutal sounds is followed by pain cresting into a brutal wave that overtakes everything I know.  Everything about me.  I lose a sense of time of place.  I don’t feel my hands behind my back.  I don’t feel my knees on the carpet.  I feel pain.  Pain is all. Pain defines my existence  Then my training returns “Nineteen”

She stopped, hands on her hips, admiring her work. “You’ve made it to halfway—nineteen kicks down. That means you’ve earned your little reward.” She stepped in close, lifted her blouse and bra in one smooth motion. Those heavy, perfect breasts I worshipped spilled free—big dark areolas, the bumpy texture I loved so much. My mouth watered even as my balls screamed.

“Alexa, one-minute timer,” She commanded.

She wrapped both hands around my sack—thumbs pressing straight into the most swollen, tender spots the mallet had left—and squeezed. Hard. The pain was immediate and crushing, like my testicles were being slowly pulped—deep ache blooming into fire, every nerve lit up. I locked my hands behind my back, eyes locked on her breasts, but within ten seconds the agony was so bad I couldn’t even focus on them.

She leaned in, voice soft against my ear. “I love you.”

The words had barely left her mouth before she tightened her grip even more, grinding her thumbs deep. I cried out, legs shaking violently—stomach heaving, vision blurring black at the edges. The crush turned the lingering ache from yesterday into something white-hot and nauseating.

“I love you too,” I gasped, the words broken.

She kept squeezing, shifting her powerful fingers through my nut meat, targeting the most sore and vulnerable spots, all while I stared unseeing at the breasts that were my ‘reward’. Thirty seconds in I was trembling so hard I had to lean forward and grip her hips just to stay upright. The timer finally chimed. She released me and I collapsed sideways, curling around my punished sack, panting—sweat dripping, chest heaving like I’d run a marathon.

“Good boy,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “Only twenty more. And you know what? After listening to you talk about that stupid budget meeting, I think the balls should take the rest extra hard. They’re the ones that always make you weak when you need to be strong at work, aren’t they?”

I struggled back to my knees, legs spread again, offering the same swollen, throbbing orbs. “Yes… the balls are what make me weak.”

The next kick was vicious.  Pain that was impossible to process. Impact leaving me nauseous and unsteady.  I barely manage “Twenty.” before the next brutal impact arrives.

I counted through gritted teeth—each one landing like a hammer on raw meat, shockwaves rolling up my spine. By thirty my vision was tunneling and I could feel vomit threatening at the back of my throat—legs jelly, breath ragged.

The thirtieth kick folded me completely—I dropped to the floor, cradling my balls, rolling in agony, a strangled groan ripping out as the pain spiked fresh, blinding, I wretched, my stomach trying to spill it’s contents, but we do this before dinner so there is no mess, and I had nothing to vomit up, despite the series of spasms that tried.

My wife knelt beside me, petting my head like I was a good dog. “You’re doing so well, honey. The balls are being such a pain today, but your effort is impressive. Now get back up, so we can repeat that one, don’t make me wait”

I did—shaking, gasping. The next kick came fast. I bucked, hands flying down on instinct—then froze before I defended my tender manhood. “Penalty,” I croaked, voice wrecked.

Another kick evaporates my world, and I am writhing on the ground, body seeking any form of relief, and finding none.  

She sighed theatrically. “Naughty balls. We’re going to have to repeat that one.”

The repeat kick landed square—harder, slower, grinding my left ball flat against bone. I screamed, body jerking, tears streaming—gut clenching like I’d been punched from inside.

“Penalty.” I say.

Kick.  

“Thirty-two,” I struggled to say.

Her melodic voice sang. “Doing Good.  Keep it up.”  And then her loving foot slammed again into my tender orbs.

“Thirty-three” another solid thud, both orbs flattening, nausea surging. I stayed upright—barely—legs locked open, sweat pouring.

“Thirty-four” I collapsed again, rolling, cradling, whimpering.

As soon as I made it back to my knees, another kick floored me.  “Penalty,” I managed, barely audible, and struggle again to make my balls vulnerable to further abuse. 

“You’re so pretty when you offer them sweetly like that”.  My wife praises me, “You look so pretty presenting them like that, honey.” Her voice was almost tender. “Now hold still while I remind these rebellious little things who’s in charge.” She unleashes a brutal kick that makes me feel like I'm drowning in a sea of agony.

“Penalty” I say.

Another kick lands, and I’m down.  She patted my shoulder. “Almost there.  I believe in you.   Get back up. You’re trying so hard… too bad the balls put you into these uncomfortable spots.  Present them again.  Nicely.”

I rose and took it again—kick like a boot to the soul, vision flashing white, stomach heaving. I croaked out “penalty”, voice cracking into nothing.

By thirty-nine I was a sweaty, shaking wreck on the floor, tears mixing with the drool on my cheek—balls throbbing, swollen beyond recognition, every breath a knife.

She crouched down, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Great job tonight. I’m so proud of you.” Then, right against my ear so only I could hear: “And tomorrow? Those balls are getting punished properly—for breaking my nice chain during Sunday’s little light session. They’ll learn to respect my things.”

My stomach dropped even as fresh fear-lust spiked through me.

She stood up, smoothing her blouse. “I’ll start dinner. You log it on the board. Those balls are going to need all the rest they can get before tomorrow when I plan to give them a proper punishment”

I stayed on the floor another minute, or maybe five.  Breathing through the aftershocks, trying to determine if I was still alive, it I was human or only an embodiment of suffering, then slowly I dragged myself up. I added the tally to the whiteboard—Date: Monday, Kicks: 39 + 5 penalties, Mid-reward: yes, Final: no.

Behind me I heard her humming in the kitchen, already planning exactly how much worse tomorrow was going to be.

And I felt love.

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

reddit.com
u/CBTOnly — 14 days ago
▲ 14 r/BallbustingStories

My Poor Balls: Sunday, Light Training (Variety of Escalating Torture)

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 29: Sunday – ‘Light’ Training (Variety of Escalating Torture)

I slept naked, the way I’m required to every night. Clothes would deny her access to the balls, and the balls never get mercy—even when I’m unconscious.  

The first thing I felt was her hand closing around my sack. Not a gentle cup. A firm, possessive grip that lifted my swollen, tender testicles and gave them a brisk, businesslike shake. Normally that touch would have been only uncomfortable. Today, after the dragon tail, the metal bar, and the long, crackling cattle-prod sessions that had left my balls raw and leaking, it felt like she was trying to rip them off. A guttural groan tore out of me before I was even fully awake.

“Wakey-wakey,” she sang softly, still shaking them. “It’s after ten. Time for some very light training today, honey. After what those poor balls went through last night, I think we should take it easy.”

I blinked up at her, eyes watering from the lingering burn in my sack. I knew that sweet tone. I knew the innocent little smile. There was a trap somewhere, but I also knew my role.

“That… sounds nice,” I managed.

She gave my balls one last affectionate little jiggle that made my stomach flip, then released them. “Good. I even made a special box so you’ll know everything will be light.” She held up a small white Kleenex box she’d decorated with fluffy clouds and a smiling sun. In neat marker it read **Light Training – Pick One!** “Every hour, on the hour, you’ll reach in and draw one little task. Nothing heavy. Just enough to keep the balls from getting lazy. Sound fair?”

“Yes, dear.”

She kissed my forehead. “Naked from the waist down all day, of course. Can’t have clothes in the way if the balls need attention. Go kneel in the living room. We start at eleven.”

---

At 10:58 I was already on my knees in the living room, legs spread wide, hands behind my head, presenting my bruised, swollen testicles exactly the way she likes. They hung lower than usual, the skin shiny and tight, mottled purple and red from last night’s beating.

“Eleven o’clock,” she announced cheerfully from the couch. “Reach in and pick your light training for the hour.”

I reached into the cloud box and pulled out a folded slip.

**1 Punch**

I almost laughed with relief. One punch? After last night that was nothing.

My wife stayed seated comfortably on the couch and patted the spot right next to her. “Come stand here, honey. Right beside me.”

I rose on shaky legs and stood next to the couch, balls presented at perfect height for her seated fist. She looked up at me with a sweet smile, then drove her knuckles hard into my left testicle. The impact made a meaty *thud* and dropped me straight to my knees, gasping.

She waited patiently while I struggled back to my feet and resumed my position beside her. “See? Nice and light. Good job, honey.”

---

At noon I drew again.

**10 seconds squeezing**

She stayed seated and beckoned me over. I stood beside the couch while she reached out with both hands, took my tender orbs, and squeezed. Her fingers dug straight into the bruised meat, thumbs pressing deep into the spots the dragon tail had left raw. Ten seconds stretched into forever. I hissed through my teeth, trembling, but kept my legs open.

When she finally let go she gave my sack a gentle pat. “There we go. Just a tiny squeeze. The balls are doing great so far.”

---

One o’clock: **30 seconds squeezing**

My heart sank a little when I read it aloud. Thirty seconds? She noticed and tilted her head with mock sympathy.

“Oh honey, you’re the one picking these. I wanted today to be easy.”

I stood beside her on the couch as she crushed my balls again, much harder this time. Her thumbs ground into the most swollen parts while she counted slowly out loud. By fifteen seconds I was panting. By twenty-five my vision was blurring. When she finally released me I collapsed forward, gasping, my testicles feeling twice their normal size and throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

---

Two o’clock: **4 Kicks**

She sighed theatrically as I read it. “Four kicks? Sweetie, I asked for light training and you’re being mean to the balls again. Remember to draw the easy ones next time.”

I knelt in front of her while she stood. She delivered four solid kicks, each one flattening my already tender nuts against my pelvis. I counted each one through gritted teeth, legs shaking.

---

Three o’clock: **3 Punches**

I stood beside the couch as she remained seated. The first punch landed square on my left ball and drove me straight to my knees. I gasped, fighting the white-hot flare. I struggled back up, knees trembling, and just as I rose nearly all the way her hard knuckles collided with my soft testicles again. I went down a second time, curling instinctively. She didn’t wait for me to get up this time. She stood, grabbed my knees, forced them apart, and drove her fist into my balls one final time. The third punch was the hardest. I cried out and rolled onto my side, cradling my punished orbs while she sat back down, smiling like she’d just given me a hug.

---

Four o’clock: **1 minute holding 25 lbs up with his nuts**

She tied the 25-pound weight to my sack with the familiar strap and made me stand there holding it completely off the ground for a full sixty seconds. My legs shook violently. The deep, throbbing ache spread up into my gut. Every tiny tremor sent fresh agony through my swollen balls. She watched the whole time, slowly touching herself on the couch, clearly enjoying the way my face twisted.

---

Five o’clock: **3 stomps from her boots**

She looked genuinely disappointed when I read it. “Three stomps? Honey, I wanted this to be an easy day for the balls and you keep choosing the harder stuff. You’re being too mean to them.”

I had to tie my balls tightly with a hair band first, forcing the swollen orbs down and forward, then present them on the hard coffee table like an offering. The skin was already stretched tight from swelling; the band made every movement send fresh cramps through the meat.

She put on her heavy hiking boots and stood over me.

First stomp: She lifted her boot high and brought the heel down squarely across both balls, crushing them flat between hard rubber and unforgiving wood. The pain was explosive — a deep, flattening crush that made my vision flash white and forced a strangled scream from my throat. Fear spiked hard; I was terrified the next one would be even worse.

Second stomp: She aimed deliberately for the left ball this time. The heel landed with brutal precision, mashing the already punished orb into the table. The impact drove a sickening wave of nausea through my gut. I bucked involuntarily, tears springing to my eyes as terror flooded me — how much more could they take?

Third stomp: She ground her boot down slowly, twisting slightly so the heel dug deep into the center of my sack. The sustained pressure turned the pain into a burning, crushing agony that made my whole body shake. My balls rebounded but the pain remained by the time she finally lifted her foot.

---

Six o’clock: **8 punches**

I knelt in front of her while she stood. She delivered eight punches with growing enthusiasm. The first two were solid and made me grunt. The third and fourth landed harder on my left ball, sending sharp nausea radiating into my stomach. By the fifth I was struggling to stay upright after each impact. The sixth caught both orbs and nearly dropped me. The seventh was aimed directly at my right ball and left me gasping. The eighth — the hardest yet — flattened my swollen sack and left me trembling on my knees, fighting the urge to curl up and protect my balls.

---

Seven o’clock: **10 kicks**

I knelt while she stood over me. She delivered ten kicks with clear enjoyment. The first three were firm but I managed to count through them. The fourth and fifth caught my left ball at awkward angles and made me cry out. By the seventh my legs were shaking badly and I nearly closed them on instinct. She scolded me lightly and made me spread wider. The eighth and ninth kicks were harder, each one flattening my swollen orbs and driving the air from my lungs. The tenth was a full-power kick that left me on the floor, vomiting the small amount of dinner I had tried to eat between the waves of pain from my abused testicles.

My wife knelt down and petted me gently as I squirmed around on the floor. “Oh honey, I feel so bad for you having such naughty balls. The balls always get you into trouble like this.”

Then she immediately changed gears, her voice turning brisk. “Make sure to clean up after yourself before eight pm when we draw the next training.” She stood and walked away as I continued to writhe about in pain.

---

Eight o’clock: **2 with the cattle prod**

When I read it my voice cracked completely. “Please… not the prod. Not today. They’re so sore already.”

She gave me that soft, pitying smile she always uses right before she hurts me anyway. “Oh baby. You’re the one who keeps picking the tough ones. I wanted light training. But rules are rules.”

I stood and walked to the wall where the cattle prod hung displayed like a trophy rifle. I saw it every single time I walked through the living room — a constant reminder. It was my job to retrieve it. I took it down from its mount with trembling hands and brought it back to her.

I begged the whole time. I begged while I pressed my swollen, bruised balls against the prongs. I begged right up until the first vicious zap tore through my testicles and turned my plea into a scream. The second shock was worse. I collapsed, rolling on the floor, cradling my nuts and whimpering like a child.

---

Nine o’clock: **10 minutes holding up 45 lbs with his nuts**

When I unfolded the slip and read it aloud my voice broke completely. “Ten… minutes holding up forty-five pounds with my nuts.”

My wife put her hands on her hips and gave me a long, theatrical scolding look, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Ten minutes with forty-five pounds? Honey, this was supposed to be a light day. You are really screwing this up for the balls. I’m trying to be nice and you keep making it harder on them.”

She pointed behind the couch. “The weight is right back there. Go get it and bring it to the center of the room.”

I shuffled over on shaky legs. Sure enough, the heavy 45-pound plate was sitting there, already prepared, right next to a small box. She had it ready the whole time. The realization sent a fresh spike of nervous fear through me. She’d been expecting me to draw something brutal again.

I gripped the weight with both hands and carried it—waddling awkwardly because of how sore my balls already were—to the middle of the living room and set it down with a heavy thud.

“Now fetch the parachute and chain from the little box right next to where the weight was,” she ordered.

I retrieved the box. Inside were the familiar leather parachute harness and a thin chain with clips. When I wrapped the parachute around my sack and tightened the straps, it forced my swollen testicles down and forward into a position that would normally feel natural. Today, with how grotesquely bruised and enlarged they were, the simple adjustment sent sharp, sickening throbs through both orbs. I hissed through my teeth as I buckled it.

Back in the center of the room I crouched, clipped the small chain between the parachute ring and the heavy weight, then straightened up slightly on my haunches.

“Stand up,” she said.

I tried. Nothing happened. The weight didn’t even budge, as if it were welded to the floor. My balls screamed under the sudden tension, but the plate stayed exactly where it was.

My wife clicked her tongue. “Don’t let the balls deny you proper character building, sweetie. You’re the one who picked this, after all.”

Anger flared hot in my chest—at my own weakness, at these pathetic, troublemaking balls that kept failing me. I growled under my breath, planted my feet, and drove upward with everything I had. The chain went tight. For a moment the weight lifted… then, with a sharp metallic *snap*, the small chain broke. The plate crashed back to the floor.

My wife’s eyes widened in mock outrage. “Oh! Those fucking balls just broke my nice chain!” She shook her head, clearly fighting a grin. “Bad, bad balls. Later I’m going to have to punish them properly so they learn to respect my things.”

She pointed toward the bookshelf on the far side of the room. “There’s another chain in the blue box on the second shelf. Go get it.”

I hobbled over, retrieved the new chain, and brought it back. In my head I realized she had already placed it there—knowing the first, weaker chain would break. Was that sadistic? Or was it considerate, making sure the game could continue without real interruption? It was both at once, that beautiful contradiction that made me love her so much. She could be sweetly cruel and thoughtfully vicious in the same breath, and it made my heart ache with devotion even while my balls screamed.

I crouched again, clipped the new chain in place, and rose once more.

The weight still didn’t move. My balls stretched painfully downward, but the plate stayed stubbornly on the floor.

My wife sighed dramatically. “Any real man would have no problem with a little weight like that.”

That did it. Fresh anger surged through me—at these weak, rebellious balls that were embarrassing me in front of my perfect wife. I locked my hands behind my back, planted my feet, and pulled with every ounce of strength and fury I possessed. The chain went bar-tight. My testicles felt like they were being ripped from my body. A deep aching pain took over my groin and up into my gut. My vision tunneled to white. Every muscle in my core and legs quivered violently. Tears poured down my face as the weight finally, slowly, lifted clear off the floor.

“I… I did it,” I announced through gritted teeth, voice cracking, tears streaming freely.

My wife looked up from the couch with a playfully bored little smile, as if I’d just proudly announced I’d tied my own shoes.

“Good job,” she said in a flat, unimpressed tone. Then she twisted the knife with perfect cruelty: “You only have nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds left.”

I stood there trembling, balls screaming under the relentless downward pull, sweat pouring down my back and mixing with the tears on my face. She casually picked up her phone and started scrolling, acting like my suffering was the most mundane background noise in the world. After a minute she lifted the phone, angled it toward me, and took a picture.

“Smile, honey,” she said sweetly. “I’m only posting this because you were so proud of your little accomplishment. Everyone will love seeing how strong you are.”

I was dying inside. My balls felt like they were being slowly torn from my body. The deep ache had turned into a constant, nauseating burn that radiated up into my stomach and down my thighs. Every tiny shift of my weight sent fresh agony through the stretched cords. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stay upright. I wanted to beg her to stop, but I knew better. The balls never got mercy.

After several more minutes the pain became unbearable. My voice came out small and pathetic.

“Please… honey… it’s too much. Can you help me? Just a little?”

She sighed theatrically, as if I were asking her to do the most inconvenient favor imaginable, and stood up. She walked over and gripped the chain, giving it a tiny experimental tug.

“Grabbing that heavy chain might hurt my delicate hand a bit,” she said. “But I suppose I can help you in a different way.”

She peeled off her shirt and panties, standing completely naked in front of me. Her curvy body, heavy breasts, and the dark areolas I adored so much filled my vision. My cock twitched despite everything.

She cupped her hand, collected some of the tears and sweat from my face and chest, and used it to lubricate her palm. Then she wrapped her warm, slick fingers around my shaft and began slow, teasing strokes.

“If you keep your hands behind your back the entire time,” she said, voice silky, “I’ll keep stroking that silly dick for you.”

I immediately locked my hands behind me. The pleasure was maddening next to the white-hot agony in my balls. I stared at her beautiful breasts bouncing gently with each movement of her arm, at the soft curve of her hips, at the way her nipples had hardened. She was perfect. She was everything. And my balls were on fire, stretched to the limit, screaming for relief that would never come.

“Thank you,” I whispered between gasps, tears still rolling down my cheeks. “Thank you for helping me…”

She kept stroking, building me closer and closer, her thumb swirling over the head with slick, torturous precision. I was right on the edge, hips twitching, when the timer on her phone suddenly chimed.

“Time’s up,” she said in that same bored tone.

The moment the words left her mouth my strength gave out. I collapsed forward onto all fours, the weight crashing to the floor with a heavy thud. I stayed there gasping, chest heaving, drool and tears dripping onto the carpet while my balls throbbed in furious protest.

She was already pulling her clothes back on, casually browsing her phone again.

“I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes for the next training,” she said without looking up. “Try to draw something lighter next time, okay? For the balls’ sake.”

---

Ten o’clock: **5 with the 1 lb rubber mallet**

I was already a wreck when I drew the final slip. My hands shook so badly I could barely unfold the paper. When I read it tears welled up immediately.

“Please… not the mallet. Not five. They can’t take it. Please, honey.”

She crouched down beside me, cupped my face, and wiped a tear with her thumb. Her voice was gentle, almost maternal.

“Sweetie, I told you all day I wanted light training. You kept choosing the mean stuff. Now look at you—blubbering like this. I care about these balls too, you know. They’re our toys. You have to take better care of them.”

She was clearly fighting a smile the whole time she said it.

Still, she made me present my mangled testicles on the coffee table.

The first blow came down with a sickening *thud*. My swollen orbs flattened brutally against the wood, the rubber spreading the force so every inch of bruised meat absorbed the impact. I gasped, eyes watering, the emotional shock of being hammered again after such a brutal day hitting almost as hard as the physical pain.

The second strike landed slightly off-center, crushing the left ball more than the right. The pain was sharper, more localized — a deep, crushing ache that made my stomach heave. Fear flooded me; I was terrified the next one would be even worse.

The third blow was perfectly centered. Both balls compressed flat for a split second before rebounding, sending waves of nausea and white-hot agony radiating through my groin. Tears streamed down my face as I realized how completely broken I felt.

The fourth mallet strike came faster. My balls were already so sensitive that the impact felt like an explosion inside them. I sobbed openly, body shaking, pride shattered by how easily these “light” tasks had destroyed me.

The fifth and final blow was the hardest. The mallet drove my mangled testicles into the table with merciless force. My vision went white, my mouth opened in a silent scream, and the emotional weight of failing yet again — of letting the balls embarrass me in front of her — crashed down harder than the rubber itself. I collapsed into a sobbing, drooling mess on the floor, curled protectively around my ruined balls.

My wife knelt beside me and stroked my hair while I shook.

“Shhh. It’s okay. All done now.” She kissed the top of my head. “See what happens when you don’t listen and pick the hard ones? I wanted today to be easy for the balls, but you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

She looked down at my grotesquely swollen, deeply bruised sack and gave it the gentlest little pat.

“Poor things. All beat up again.” Her voice dropped into that playful, loving tone I knew so well. “But don’t worry. We’ll let them rest… until tomorrow.”

She leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear as she whispered:

“I love you.”

Then her hand closed around my tortured balls and squeezed, hard enough to make fresh tears spill down my cheeks.

“I love you too,” I gasped through the pain.

She smiled against my temple, clearly delighted with her day of “light” training.

And despite everything—despite the tears, the shaking, the way my balls felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder—I knew I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

reddit.com
u/CBTOnly — 15 days ago
▲ 10 r/BallbustingStories

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 28: Saturday – Lesson in Immobilization (Whipping, Caning, Cattle Prod)

I stepped through the door a little after sunset, the house already dim except for the soft glow coming from downstairs. My balls were still throbbing from the auction earlier—lefty a swollen, needle-punctured wreck, righty bruised deep from the bonger and mallet. Every step made them swing and ache, but I didn’t cradle them. Balls don’t deserve mercy. I kicked off my shoes, dropped my pants and underwear, and knelt in the foyer with my legs spread wide, presenting them like always.

My wife appeared almost immediately, barefoot in a loose tank top and nothing else, that playful little smile already curling her lips. She carried a thick roll of saran wrap in one hand and a bundle of suspension cuffs in the other.

“Hi, honey,” she said sweetly, eyes dropping straight to my battered sack. “Look at the balls. Still all swollen and pathetic from the auction. They really put on a show today, didn’t they?”

I met her gaze steady. “Yes, Ma’am.”

She set the supplies down and crouched in front of me, one hand gently—almost lovingly—cupping the sore balls. “They’re so cute when they’re this tender. But they still flinch. Still try to squirm away every single time I decide they need love. That’s not very fair to me, is it?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“So tonight we’re going to fix that.” Her voice stayed light, almost cheerful, like she was explaining a new recipe. “A little lesson in immobilization. We’re going to wrap the balls up so tight they literally can’t move an inch—no matter how much they want to. And while they’re completely helpless, I’m going to remind them why they exist. By the time we’re done, the balls will have learned to stay perfectly vulnerable for me. Sound like a good training exercise?”

My stomach twisted with that familiar cocktail of fear and devotion. I could already picture it—completely trapped, no way to protect them—and the thought made my cock twitch despite the pain. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you for training them.”

She beamed. “Good boy. Strip the rest of the way and come with me.”

I stood and followed her down to the basement. She had already cleared space in the middle of the concrete floor. A heavy chain hung from the ceiling winch we used for the really serious sessions. She pointed.

“Arms at your sides, feet together.”

I obeyed. She started with the suspension cuffs—thick padded leather ones that locked around each ankle with heavy buckles. The chain clicked into place between them. Then she began the mummification.

The saran wrap went on in long, tight spirals, starting at my shoulders and working down. She pulled it hard, layer after layer, pinning my arms tight against my torso so I couldn’t even twitch a finger. My chest, stomach, hips—everything disappeared under shiny, constricting plastic. She left only my head and the cuffed ankles exposed. When she reached my knees she paused, adding extra loops so my legs were fused together like a single column.

“Almost there,” she murmured, voice warm against my ear. “Just one little adjustment for the stars of the show.”

She cut a small, careful oval right over my crotch—barely big enough for the balls. Then she reached through and pulled my swollen, aching balls out into the open air. They looked obscene hanging there against the tight plastic cocoon, already purple and marked from the day’s earlier abuse. She slid an elastic ball stretcher over them, rolling it down until it locked tight at the base of my scrotum, forcing the whole package three full inches away from my body. The balls were now completely isolated—two fat, helpless targets with nowhere to hide and no room to squirm inside their own skin.

She stepped back and admired her work, one finger tracing the stretched cords above my trapped orbs. “Look at that. Perfect. No matter what I do to the balls now, they can’t move a millimeter. They’re going to learn poise whether they like it or not.”

I was already breathing faster. “The balls don’t deserve to move, Ma’am.”

“Exactly.” She smiled and hit the winch remote.

The chain rattled upward. My ankles lifted first, then my whole body tilted, rising smoothly until I hung completely upside down. The winch stopped when my head was just two inches off the floor—close enough I could feel the cold concrete brush my hair. Blood rushed to my skull. My mummified body swayed gently, completely rigid. The balls—stretched tight by the elastic—hung straight down toward the ceiling like ripe fruit on a vine, perfectly level for her reach, utterly exposed and motionless. I couldn’t even rock my hips. The saran wrap and duct tape she’d added at elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles made sure of that.

She walked around me slowly, dragging a finger along the plastic. “How does that feel, honey?”

“Helpless,” I said, voice steady even upside down. The blood pounding in my ears mixed with the deep, constant ache radiating from my stretched sack. *They’re so exposed. So completely trapped. I can’t protect them even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. I want this for her.* “Completely helpless. I love you for doing this.”

She leaned in and kissed my forehead. “I love you too.” Then, without breaking eye contact, she crushed the stretched balls in her hand—hard. I gasped, but my body couldn’t even flinch. The pain just sat there, burning, with nowhere to go.

“First tool tonight,” she announced cheerfully, picking up the dragon’s tail whip. The thin, flexible leather strip snapped through the air. “The balls are going to stay perfectly still while I paint them pretty.”

Thwip.

The tail licked across both orbs at once—sharp, stinging fire that felt like a red-hot wire being dragged over the already bruised skin. The balls tried to jump, tried to retract into my body, but the stretcher and the mummification held them exactly where they were. The pain bloomed instantly, a bright line of agony that made my gut clench and my vision flicker. *They’re burning. They want to hide so badly, but they can’t. Good. They don’t deserve to hide from her.*

Another lash. Another. She worked them methodically, the whip cracking again and again, each strike landing exactly where she wanted because I couldn’t dodge, couldn’t close my legs, couldn’t do anything but hang there and take it. The saran wrap creaked faintly with every useless twitch of my trapped muscles. The balls swelled hotter and tighter under the elastic, the skin stretching shiny and angry red between the purple bruises. Each new stripe overlapped the last until the entire sack felt like it was on fire—every nerve screaming, every inch of skin raw and electric.

“Poorly trained little troublemakers,” she cooed between strokes. “Look at the balls bounce in place. They want to hide so bad, but they can’t. That’s the lesson, baby. They stay right here for me. Always.”

The pain built in hot, overlapping waves. I was panting, head throbbing from being upside down, but my eyes stayed locked on her face. Pride and shame twisted together inside me. *I’m doing it. I’m keeping them vulnerable for her. Even when every instinct screams to protect them, I’m not moving. She’s perfect. This is love.* I was crying quietly now, but I never once tried to beg her to stop. They didn’t deserve it.

She set the whip down and picked up the heavy rod—smooth, dense metal, cold to the touch. “Time to tenderize.”

She swung it like a baseball bat. The heavy clang of metal on stretched ball-meat echoed in the room. My vision whited out for a second as the impact drove deep into the core of both orbs, flattening them brutally against the unyielding elastic ring. The pain was different now—thick, bruising, radiating up into my guts like a slow hammer blow to the stomach. I couldn’t curl, couldn’t twist away. All I could do was groan and breathe through it while she praised me.

Another swing. Another. The rod landed with deep, bruising force, each impact making the trapped balls compress and rebound in the only way they could—straight down, held fast by the stretcher. The ache sank deeper with every strike, turning into a heavy, nauseating throb that made my whole abdomen feel sick. *They’re being pulverized. They’re so swollen they feel like they’re going to split open, but I’m not moving. I’m not protecting them. I’m hers. Completely hers.* Sweat dripped down my face and into my hair. The balls were turning a deeper, uglier purple, the skin taut and shiny, every vein standing out like they were about to burst.

“You’re doing so good, honey. So proud of you. The balls are finally learning to behave.”

Then came the cattle prod.

She held it up so I could see the twin prongs. “I’m not going to give you quick little zaps tonight. We’re going to hold it right here… and let you really feel it. Train the balls to stay still while the electricity cooks them.”

She pressed the prongs firmly against my left testicle and pushed the button.

The shock was immediate and unrelenting. A buzzing, searing burn exploded through the meat of my ball, like every nerve ending was being fried at once. She kept it there—two full seconds, three, four—longer than she’d ever done before. My ball felt like it was boiling inside the stretched skin, the electricity crawling through every fiber, making the whole orb swell and pulse with white-hot fire. The muscles in my thighs and abdomen tried to spasm and curl, but the saran wrap and duct tape turned every desperate twitch into nothing more than a faint tremor inside the plastic cocoon. 

“Please—mercy!” I gasped, voice cracking. “Please, stop!”

She didn’t. She moved to the right ball and held it there again. Then back to the left. Over and over, long, sustained shocks that made my vision tunnel and my stomach heave. Each one felt longer than the last. The balls were on fire—raw, swollen, pulsing with every heartbeat like they were being electrocuted from the inside out. The electricity burned deeper than skin, deeper than muscle—it felt like my whole sack was a live wire, every nerve screaming in unison. *They’re cooking. They’re actually cooking and I can’t pull away. I can’t close my legs. I can’t do anything but take it for her. This is what she wants. This is love.* Tears streamed down my face and into my hair. I was sobbing openly now, begging between breaths—“Please—mercy—please!”—but the balls stayed perfectly presented, stretched and motionless, exactly where she wanted them.

I choked out, “God—please—”

She paused, prod still humming against my skin. “Not God, honey. Goddess.” Her voice was soft, almost tender. “Say it.”

“Goddess—please—mercy—”

She smiled and pressed harder. “Better.”

“I know it hurts,” she whispered, stroking my cheek while she held the prod against me for another endless count. “But you’re not squirming. You’re not protecting them. You’re being such a good husband right now.”

I don’t know how long it went on. Time disappeared inside the pain. The balls felt raw and huge, pulsing with every heartbeat. I was crying quietly, pleading—“Goddess—mercy—please—” but the muscles kept straining uselessly against the bonds.

Finally she stepped back, breathing a little hard herself. “I think the lesson is sinking in.”

She lowered the winch until I was flat on my back on the concrete, still completely mummified, the balls still stretched out and helpless. She straddled my face, lowering her soaked pussy onto my mouth without a word. I licked eagerly, desperately—long, obedient strokes exactly the way she liked. Her thighs clamped around my head, and I felt her start to ride my tongue.

“That’s it, baby… just like that.”

She ground down harder, moaning softly. I kept licking, tasting how wet she was, how much my suffering had turned her on. Her breathing quickened. Her hips rocked faster.

Right as she started to come she reached back, pressed the cattle prod firmly against the stretched, burning balls, and held the button down.

The shock tore through me at the exact moment she cried out in orgasm. Electricity flooded my ruined testicles again—sustained, merciless, cooking them while her pussy flooded my mouth. I screamed into her—“Goddess—no—mercy!”—the sound muffled against her clit, every muscle in my body straining uselessly inside the plastic prison as the pain spiked higher than anything that had come before. The balls felt like they were exploding in white-hot fire, the current ripping through swollen tissue, making every vein throb and every nerve howl. My tongue froze—I couldn’t lick anymore, couldn’t even breathe right—just raw, broken pleading vibrating against her as she rode the wave harder, her climax peaking on my muffled cries.

When her orgasm finally faded she lifted off my face, glowing and breathless. She looked down at my wrecked, tear-streaked face and smiled the softest, most loving smile I’d ever seen.

“You did it,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “You kept the balls perfectly vulnerable the whole time. I’m so proud of you.”

She leaned down and kissed me gently, tasting herself on my lips. Then her hand drifted back to my swollen, electrified sack and gave it one last, affectionate squeeze.

“I love you.”

The crush that followed was firm and lingering. I whimpered into her mouth, but I smiled through the pain.

Because I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

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u/CBTOnly — 21 days ago
▲ 13 r/BallbustingStories

Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.

Chapter 27: Saturday, The Auction (Ballbusting, Humiliation)

I walked through the door at the agreed upon time slightly before noon, stripped from the waist down, and went straight to the dining room table. My wife was already waiting. She didn’t say a word at first. She just held up a piece of rope with a noose tied in one end. 

I walked to her, and she looped to the noose around my poor balls, and then grabbed another for my wrists.  I turned around to let her bind me.  

She then led me by the ball rope and pulled me forward drawing my balls across the polished wood table, stretching them out in front of me like goods on display. The rope was anchored taut to the far side of the table so my vulnerable testicles projected prominently, completely exposed, unable to pull back even an inch. She tied my penis up tight against my torso with a separate cord so it stayed completely out of the way.

She stepped back, looked at her handiwork, and smiled.

She makes an effort to effect a genteel southern accent, and says: “Tonight the balls are going up for auction—separate lots when it suits me. You will bid on every single lot yourself… and you will show proper respect for the quality of the merchandise.” She paused, then added with a little sigh, “These balls are poorly trained, but they still have potential.”

Lot 1 – Left Ball Only

“Opening lot: ten firm punches to the left ball. A well-trained set of man-balls would start at forty. Starting bid?”

Forty is so many.  I can’t do forty, but I don’t want to do the medium, because I want her to be happy. “Twenty.” I blurt out.

She raised an eyebrow. “Twenty? These poorly trained troublemakers barely deserve fifteen… but since you’re being generous, let’s make it twenty-five.”

“Thirty,” I said quickly.

“Oh?”  She looks at me judgementally.  “It is your money, I guess.”  Then she closed her fist, and stepped up to the edge of the table, sizing up her targets.  

The first hit was brutal.  My left ball was still recovering from last nights needles, and the punch unleashed some leftover burning and aching from the tabasco sauce.  

“One” I called out.

Another punch, no less brutal.  “Two”

Punch. “Three”.  Punch “Four”.  Punch “Five”.

By twenty, she paused to appraise me.  I was sweating, my ball was swelling.  I was struggling to stand.  

“I think someone overbid a bit” she said mockingly. 

Punch.  The air left my lungs, and when I said “Twenty-one” it was a breathless whisper.  

Thud.  “Twenty-two”.  Thwak.  “Twenty-three”.  Meaty thud.  “Twenty-four”.  

…

The final punch probably made a sound, but I was overwhelmed by the pain, and the twisting in my stomach  “Thirty.” I called out.

She looked at her cruel fist, and appraise my swell left testicle.  She seemed pleased with the damage inflicted.  

“Well this auction got off to a surprisingly positive start, I hope the bidders are as generous in future rounds.” She says mockingly. 

Lot 2 – Right Ball Only

“Next lot: fifteen firm punches to the right ball. A well-trained set of man-balls would start at forty. Starting bid?”

I was still trying to impress her. “Twenty.”

She scoffed. “Twenty? These rebellious little things are nowhere near that level, but if you insist, how about twenty-five?”

“N…”  I start trying to disagree, but then realize it isn’t really up to me.  She decides when I hurt and how badly.  “twenty-five,” I agree.

“Alright then, let’s get you your purchases.” she says as she prepares her fist to rain down pain.  

Thunk.  A thud smashes into my right nut.  The right nut takes a majority of the force, but the sore left nut is also impacted indirectly, and given how much more abuse it took last night, and so far it hurts far worse.  “On…One” I stammer out.

Twap. “T…Two”.   Thud.  “Threeee”.  Thud. “ff..ff..four”.  

It isn’t until we hit twenty that the blows, which are mostly directed at my right testicle start causing more pain there, then in my mangled left nut.  

“Twenty”.  My voice is firmer.  I’ve passed through the panic, and arrived at acceptance.  

Thwack.  Air is forced from my lungs, “Twenty one.” I whisper.  Thunk.  “twenty -two”.   Punch “twenty-three”.  Meaty slap.  “Twenty-four”.  Thud. “Twenty-five.”

I’m light headed, struggling to process the pain.    

“I’ve really appreciate the respect you’ve shown my fine establishment.  I think you can see that while my wares might not look that impressive, they look much better once they’ve been put to work.”

Lot 3 – Right Ball Only

“Next lot: ten bonger strikes to the right ball. A well-trained set of man-balls would start at one hundred. Starting bid?”

The pain was already settling in deep. My right ball is throbbing with my heart beat.  The pain is so severe. I bid lower. “Ten.”

She sounded almost offended. “Ten? After the show these balls have already put on? I think sir, you do me an insult. Twenty.”

“Twenty,” I gasped.

“Well I hate to let them go at this price, but I accept your bargain.”  She walks up to the table, lifts the bonger, and holds it in front of my face.  With a huge grin, she says “Are you ready?”

I’m not, my right ball is swollen, and pulsing.  It just got done being abused.  I don’t know how I’m going to get through it, but I love her so much, so I nod silently.

She makes a production, swinging the bonger in a huge arc, but doesn’t hit with as much force as she could have.  I squirm as it is coming in fear for my precious orbs, but the rope prevents me from dodging, and the right ball absorbs more force and pain.  I take a deep breath and say “One.”  Twap.  “Two.”  Twap. “Three.”  Twap. “Four.”

Twap.  The blow lands, my ball is brutally compressed.  I’m out of my body.  Survival mode.  I say nothing.  There is a brutal sounds of rubber meeting ball meat.  Then angry, my wife shoves me to gain my attention. 

“I need you here with me.  I can’t have you bailing on our quality time.  That is why we count, so that we can always make sure we are both present when we have our fun.”

“Ss.sss.sss..sorry.” I apologize.  Pleading for mercy, and understanding, but also hating that I showed this sort of weakness.

“That was 18, just 2 more.  Count it.”

“Eighteen” I say, and as the word leaves my mouth, my right testicle is obliterated by my wife’s loving swing.  

It takes me several deep breaths to master myself long enough to weakly say, “Nineteen”.  Only for another round of agony to explode in my right nut immediately from my wife’s ministrations, un-deterred by my suffering.  

She says a few words appraising the success of my bid, but I’m not hearing them.  They are drowned out by the white noise of overwhelming testicle pain.  

Lot 4 – Left Ball Only

“Next lot: ten bonger strikes to the left ball. A well-trained set of man-balls would start at one hundred. Starting bid?”

I said what I had to. “Ten.”

She feigned extreme disappointment. “Ten? Are you only 10% of a real man?  Surely we can do better.”

“better?” I ask.  Words and concepts coming hard because of the abuse of my sensitive testicles.

“Yeah, lefty has had it easy.  The last 2 rounds have focused entirely on righty.” my wife chides.  

That isn’t quite right.  My balls are bound into a tight package, and even though she is trying to singularly target one, the pain is distributed.  Also, my left ball received 7 needles last night, 5 of which were soaked in tabasco sauce, and it is far from recovered from that penetration.  

I consider my options.  My brain working very slowly.  Eventually I accept my fate.  “Twenty” I say.

“You drive a hard bargain, sir.  My kids may go hungry because of your miserly nature.  But these pathetic balls will bring me nothing without a buyer, so I accept you meager offer”

She steps forwards, and hold the bonger in front of my eyes, and then says.  “At the very least, I would like to hear you thank me for my generosity, before you take delivery.”

She is right, it is so generous to me that she constantly shows love in the form of brutal genital abuse.  Even when my stupid balls are too fragile or weak to handle it, she never gives up on me, and always pushes me to be better.  

“Yes, thank you so much.” I say earnestly.  “I don’t deserve someone as kind as you.”

“You are right you don’t.” She says, and that is punctuated the a meaty slap as the bonger collides with my most sensitive parts.  

“One” I say obediently.  Twap.  “Two”.   Thunk.  Both balls explode.  White noise. An empty world that has nothing but pain.  Pain and duty.  “Three”.   More pain.  “Four”.  The shape of the pain has changed.  Instead of hits, it is waves, but at the crest of every wave I dutifully count.  “Five”  “Six”  “Seven”..... “Eighteen” “Nineteen”  “Twenty”.  

“Hoo-eee! What a showing.  I did not expect the balls to be able to deliver such quality.  You sir have made a shrewd purchase indeed.  Are you ready for the last round of bidding?”

Last round.  I have no idea how much time has passed.  The brutality in my organs is extreme, and the waves continue even though the hits don’t. Last round.  We are nearly done.  Neary to the end.  I nod my acceptance.

Lot 5 – Both Balls

“Final lot: mallet blows to both balls. A well-trained set of man-balls would start at twenty. Starting bid?”

I was trembling. The mallet is the most brutal of the instruments she uses on my testicles.  Even one is probably too much for the states my sensitive testicles are in.  She led with twenty, she will never allow me to say one.  I shake at the fear, and say “Two.”

She pushed: “Only two? One tenth of a real man? What’s the matter, my little baby? Don’t have what it takes?”

“Three”  I grit my teeth and offer.  

“These poorly trained troublemakers may be a disappointment, but they do bruise so pretty.  How about Eight?”

“Eight?” I pleade.  “Please, please….”  I start crying, begging.  Eight is too much.  “Please!  I can’t do eight.”

“I can tell you are a motivated buyer, but unfortunately, I can’t let these balls go for anything less than four.”  She negotiates.

“Four!”  I beg.  Four is too much but it’s less than eight.

“Not if you ask that way.”  She leans into her fake southern accent.  “Ask me real sweat like if you want me to settle for four.”

“Ma’am…” I try a southern accent of myself, but my emotional turmoil causes me to lose it immediately.  I take a deep breath, and try to slow down, and look her in the eyes as I continue.  “May I please have 4 painful mallet hits to these naughty balls?”

“Oh, are you sweet?  And well behaved!  Yes.  Sold for 4 painful mallet hits.  Are you prepared to take delivery?”

She lifts the mallet in front of my face.  It’s so scary.  It’s so brutal.  

My wife’s eyes drop, “Oh, look who is excited for the mallet.”  She giggles sadistically.  

I glance down and my penis is erect, and fighting against the cord that binds it to my torso.  The battle is pointless, all it can do is push an inch or so away from my belly.  It would be very uncomfortable if I wasn’t overcome by testicle pain.

As I’m investigating her interest, I see the mallet pass by, and intersect with my bound testicles.  I tense every muscle, the pain arrives a moment after I watch my balls compress and spill out to all sides of the mallet.  It is not a wave.  More like a curtain that obscures anything else.  My eyes tear up.  I lose all the air from my lungs, and it takes a few minutes to gain enough breath to croak out “One.”

As soon as the count is out the mallet descends again.  Powerful kinetic force tries to reach the table, but is blocked and absorbed by my abused nut sack.  I struggle fruitlessly against my bonds.  I try to retch, but nothing comes up.  

After 3 staggered breaths, I say “tw..” 

The mallet arrives before I complete the word.  The wounds left by yesterday’s needles create new angles and vectors for painful sensations.  It isn’t possible to handle this much agony.  My brain shuts down, but I don’t lose consciousness, but every part of time and place departs.  I feel pain.  It is no longer targeted.  Pain.  I inhabit the pain.  I live the pain.  A lifetime in pain.  

When I return to my body, I see that my wife has her hand down her pants, and is rubbing her vagina.  Enjoying the suffering that I am displaying for her.  

“Three” I struggle to say.  

She rubs for a second more, and then swing the mallet down.  It isn’t a perfect swing.  It mainly impacts my right testicle and bounces off to the right.  

Not perfect, doesn’t mean not painful though.  It hurts, every part of me shakes, trying to reconcile my testicle trauma with a living body.  I inhabit the pain.  

When my eyes can open, my vision blurred and red through the pain, I see my wife’s form aggressively masterbating.  Her head is tilted a bit back, and she is pushing into the table.

She catches my eye, and looking deeply into my soul, she says, “I’m almost there.  One more.  Please let me do just one more.”  

I close my eyes, then accept my fate, and meet her gaze once more and nod.  

Excitedly, she grins and then rapidly brings down the mallet again on my abused orbs.  They compress beyond tolerance.  They convert kinetic energy into pain, and then I lose myself.  I try to fall backwards, but my bound state doesn’t allow that, so after a pull that I don’t really feel, I fall forward instead.  

My wife sets one hand on me, while she finishes her orgasm with her other hand.  She grips my back as she shutters through it.  

Once she is done, she takes her pussy juice covered fingers, and force them into my mouth, and then says: “Sold to me. For life.”

Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.

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u/CBTOnly — 27 days ago