Andrea and Lucas: Part 2
Chapter 8: Cherry Pop!
“So…What kind of band is this?”
“New wave feminist punkdustrial! How’re the new clothes fitting you?” Andrea led her boyfriend in by the hand. The new clothes she’d made him buy made him actually look like he fit in with the punk crowd; the band T-shirt outlined his surprisingly jacked frame, and his tight black jeans outlined every detail of his gorgeous genitalia. She grinned as she ogled him, his balls packed so tightly into the thin, undersized pants she could see his veins pulsing through the fabric in the dim light of the concert hall. Lucas rolled his eyes.
“They make my balls ache, just a little bit, all the time, like you’re constantly squeezing them. I assumed that was the point?”
“Hell yeah.” She swatted his shrinkwrapped manhood, and caught him in a kiss as he hunched over.
“Now c’mon. Let me cuff you and we can head inside.”
“What?”
She didn’t bother explaining. Andrea just slipped her ownership cuffs out of her bag, snapping one end onto his wrist and the other onto hers. The long, thin line between them, thick metal wire wrapped in rubber, was flexible, but surprisingly strong.
“Andrea…What is this?”
“Trust me, it’s for your own good. You don’t want to go into a Cherry Pop! Concert unowned.”
“Un…owned.”
“Seriously, trust me. I do own you, don’t I?”
He sighed, and Andrea saw the resistance leave his eyes. “Of course, Andrea.”
They headed inside. The ticket checker at the front desk smiled broadly when Lucas stepped into her sight, his balls protruding like he was practically offering them to her, but when she saw the ownership cuff between the two her smile faded.
Lucas handed the tickets over and she waved them in, looking annoyed. “What was that?”
Andrea rolled her eyes and began to explain to her little nerd. “Cherry Pop! Concerts always have this kind of, uh…free roaming, improvisational, involuntary mosh pit. Or, uh. Mush pit, as they call it.”
“...And why do they call it that, Andrea?” He had a sick feeling he already knew.
“...Any girl can crush any unowned testicles whenever she wants, however she wants. But if a guy is owned, only his owner can break his balls. If you’d been single, she could’ve kneed you in your gonads, or kicked you hard enough to make you puke, or even like, twisted your nuts around until they died off, if she wanted. It’s probably why she works the front desk.”
“Oh,” Lucas said faintly. He’d turned even paler than usual.
“It’s a staple of the New wave feminist punkdustrial genre. You know, like…inverting the patriarchy, and like, prioritizing female empowerment and agency. It’s a whole political thing, I guess.” She shrugged. “Plus, their fans are 90% women and it’s just fucking fun to crush balls to the beat.”
“Why would a guy come here unowned? Why would a guy come here at all?”
“Well, some get dragged here by their beautiful goddess of a girlfriend.” Lucas nodded, conceding to that. She flicked his right nut, hard, eliciting a tiny squeak from him.
“Some guys enjoy getting their gonads smashed by random punk girls,” she said, gently moving his hands away from his crotch so she could swat his left gonad. “I’m sure you understand those ones too, if you were a little more single.” He coughed in agreement.
“And some are casual fans attending their first concert, with no idea what the vibe is like,” she grinned. “Like that guy, I think.”
Behind them, a single man had approached the ticket booth, smiling back at the usher. She took his ticket, and processed it behind the counter while he scrolled on his phone. While he was still distracted, she pulled her leg back and booted her pointy toe directly into his crotch. She lifted him a good eight inches off the ground, barely landing before she stepped forward for a brutal follow-up knee. She let the man go, and he fell to the ground on all fours, stammering in confusion.
He crawled forward to the venue entrance, barely able to get to his knees and look up at Andrea. “What the fuck…What is going on…Is this…” His eyes regained some focus. “Is this the concert?”
“Yeah, bro. First Pop! Show?” He nodded shakily.
She leaned over in sympathy, covering her cleavage so this guy who wasn’t her boyfriend couldn’t get an unearned view. “Come on in, I’ll explain how it works.” She took his uncuffed hand in hers and led the gasping, confused man inside.
First-timers were her favorites, by far. Kicking one of the perverts who actually enjoyed it always felt really icky to her; she didn’t want to give any pleasure to some guy she didn’t know, and half the time they tried some gross bullshit to rile a girl up if they weren’t getting the nutpain they had come for. It was the really innocent ones, the ones who had no idea what they were signing up for by showing up to a Pop! show without doing their research, that made the shows so exciting.
She’d never had a serious enough boyfriend to take to a show as an owner; she usually just free-roamed the floor, finding the most nervous-looking guys hiding in a corner and introducing them suddenly and violently to her boot, knee, or hand.
Of course, she’d never pop an innocent guy. As much as she enjoyed both temporarily bruising and permanently shattering a manhood, she had the standards that her self-obsessed roommate didn’t. She only allowed herself the sex-changing indulgence of a halfstration or castration on rapists, gropers, and other assholes who truly deserved it. With lax security and a panoply of grungy assholes, it was easy to find someone who deserved a full neutering at a Pop! show.
Once the doors closed behind them, she smiled down at the hunched man. “By the way, once you’re in a Pop! Show, you can’t leave.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s no ins and outs. But like, also no outs.”
Lucas's eyes widened. “You didn’t mention that.”
“Relax, nerd, you’ll be safe. You’re with me.” She turned to the still-confused solo guy. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Sunni.”
“Cute. I’m Andrea, and this is my boybitch Lucas.” She pulled him forward by her cord.
“So, the way this works — as long as you don’t have a cuff like me and him, it’ll be an open market on your balls. Any girl, anywhere in the venue, at any time, is going to do what she wants to your manhood. I’d advise you start to get used to that feeling of random, excruciating nutpain being inflicted on you for no reason. Girls will squeeze them while you’re waiting for the bathroom. They will uppercut you in the crotch when you’re trying to get a drink. They might grind a knee or a heel into your gonads when the beat is about to drop, or go absolutely feral on them once it actually does.”
“Near the end of the night, as drinks get drank and the band gets to the real hits, the mush pit starts to go really hard, and things can get really intense. It’s beautiful, and it's so much fun, but it can be really painful or even dangerous for the guys that get targeted the worst.”
Sunni stared up at her.
“There’s an onsite medical tent if one or both of them get turned to mush, or something gets badly twisted down there. My sister works there, and she is seriously one of the best ball doctors around –- if she snips anything off, she’ll make damned sure there’s no way to save it first. I know you’ve heard of those other hospitals and research facilities that aren’t as careful; I promise, she really will try her best to save what she possibly can. And if she can’t save them, she’ll at least let you give a sperm sample before she empties your sack.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m just here for…the band. I just like their music. Uh. Crushed to Bits. The Leafless Tree. Shredded Seed. That…that was a great album*.* Oh god,” He babbled, the horror of what he’d entered starting to set in as he realized how obvious the track names were. “I need to leave. Now.”
“No, dude. I told you.” She jerked her thumb back. “Doors are locked from the outside.”
“Now, just one last piece of advice: don’t try to defend yourself, and definitely don’t fight back — you’ll only draw a bigger target on your sack. Girls here are mostly going to try to do the most damage to the guys that piss them off, so if you can act submissive and helpful enough, you might get out of here with a nut intact, okay? Ideally, you'll be able to convince another single girl to own you for the evening — that's what the cuff is for — but most single girls come here so they can let loose, and being tethered to a nut slave for the whole evening is NOT their vibe.”
“Ultimately, there are really too many men at the concert for the girls to neuter every single one of you, so just do your best to avoid notice and hope for herd immunity as we take out the assholes that really deserve it.”
“Are you…is this a joke? Are you joking?” He turned to look at Lucas. “Is she for real, dude?”
“I think so.” Lucas winced. “Try your best out there. Do what she says. I always do.”
“Okay.” Sunni took a deep breath. “I don’t…This is so…This is so fucked. I guess…Thanks for letting me know. It’s good to meet someone sane here before…all that weird sex BDSM stuff begins. God, my balls still hurt. That bitch at the front kicked really fucking hard. I think she bruised something.” He hunched over, his hands on his thighs as he panted for breath.
Andrea was sure it was bruised; more specifically, from the subtle details of the way he hobbled, and the exact angle he held his torso relative to his damaged goods, and from how hard the girl had hit him, and her twenty-four years of precisely inflicting and observing such injuries, she could tell exactly what was damaged without even having to look at his testicles.
She judged he had a 1 millimeter deep black bruise on the large, flat right side of his left testicle, far enough away from his epididymis to do no serious damage to his sperm count. It went deep, nearly to the core of his nut; her pointed tip must have started the injury, and her brutal knee had deepened it into something much worse. Still, it was really not so bad of a bruise, all things considered. This would make her goal easier; she didn’t want to pop the man, after all. He hadn’t done anything wrong yet. But this was a Cherry Pop! concert, and there were rules, and she’d come here for this exact opportunity.
“This is good advice. And thanks for not, uh…kicking my nuts, I guess. I guess you’re just going to kick his balls tonight, right? And he’ll be safe from the other girls” Sunni looked jealously at Lucas.
Andrea sighed. “That’s partially right. Lucas is certainly safe for the night, but…I’m not that exclusive.”
She pulled her foot back and slammed it up into the man’s crotch, doing her best to expand on the damage the usher had caused. Andrea was an expert on testicular damage, and could tell exactly where his last ballbusting had left the tiny, purple bruise; aiming for the same square millimeter of damaged nutflesh, she kicked as hard as she possibly could, driving the pointed heel of her boot into the softened, cracking shell. She ran forward when he fell over, dragging Lucas behind her as she punted the poor man again, this time in his other healthy nut, forming a new bruise of her own. Once again, the injury was nothing that’d take him out of the gene pool; she just wanted to give him a cute little permanent souvenir from his first Pop! show.
He collapsed to the floor, gibbering incoherently as he clutched his now equally bruised testes. His legs bicycle kicked below him, spasming randomly with his pain.
“Did you…pop him?” Lucas asked hesitantly.
She rolled her eyes. “Nah, just bruised him a little. I'm not Izzie, Lucas. I'm not going to intentionally neuter a guy for no reason.” She poked Sunni’s ballsack with her toe to make sure she was telling the truth; the two soft, solid bulges confirmed that he was still fully equipped with his manhood.
She led her nerd away from the mewling man she'd left on the floor. It was a great bust; she had really felt his nuts crunch deliciously right up against his pelvis, right on the verge of causing something to break irreparably. She silently wished the guy the best of luck; his other ballbusters this evening likely wouldn't be as careful and precise as her.
Tamara looked around the disorganized tent, her meager set of tools and supplies still enough to clutter the small workspace. When her boss had ordered her to set up on site instead of waiting for the concert goers to tie up every ambulance in the county with testicular trauma, she eagerly agreed; besides the traffic issue, shaving even a few minutes off treatment time greatly improved the chance she could save a man's balls. She went through her checklist anyway, cataloguing her tools.
Scalpels: check. Suturing kits: check. Bulk ice bags: check. Elastrator with a sufficient supply of bands: check. Burdizzo: check. Mini freezer for emergency last-minute sperm samples: check. Surgical restraints and stirrups: check, one for every bed.
Anesthesia…She winced at the extra large bottle of paracetamol. It'd have to do. Check.
Assistant. Check…unfortunately. Somehow, Yvette still wasn’t prepared for their shift; she was struggling to get into her scrubs, her stethoscope lying messily on a random nearby table. Tamara sighed and went over to help.
“Ugh, thanks.” Tamara helped her pull her top over her ample and surprisingly braless chest. “All this stuff is always so confusing.”
“...they're standard scrubs, Yvette.” Tamara hadn't worked with this particular intern before, but had immediately gotten the impression she was more than a little inexperienced. “Is this your first internship?”
“Oh, definitely not!” The college girl beamed. “I've done like, a dozen. Or…started a dozen.” She winced. “They haven't always worked out for me, but my mom has been great at lining up new opportunities to learn when one falls through!”
Tamara frowned. She'd never heard of anyone going through more than two or three internships before finishing med school; their county did have especially lax rules around qualifications for urologists (given their insanely high demand; number one in the country, at nearly 40 times the median rate, hence why Tamara had to shift to cover the surgical ward, despite specializing in pathology). She knew some students shopped around for easier internships that were a better fit for them, but over five was a red flag. Over ten was…unheard of.
“You said your mom had…connections?”
“Yup! She's paying for my school.”
Tamara didn't understand the non sequitur. “Oh. So…you don't have student loans?”
“Ha, of course not! But I mean, she's paying for the school. Like, the whole thing.” Tamara stared blankly.
“The O’Darrigan wing of the math building? And the new stadium? And…all the new med school buildings?”
Tamara's eyes widened, realizing she was talking to the nepo-est of nepo babies.
“You're Yvette O’Darrigan? Like, Over Easy CEO Zennia O’Darrigan’s daughter, Yvette O'Darrigan?”
“Yup! But I don't want it to be about my mom, or her company or her trillion dollars or anything like that. I just want to learn. I know, for a fact, in my heart, that testicular surgery has always been my calling - I don't have it all figured out yet, but mom said you're the best to learn from.”
Tamara sighed. “You heard right. But first lesson here: the best surgery is the one you never have to perform. Most guys are incompetent at assessing their own injuries. They'll scream bloody murder that they've had a ball popped, or been neutered, or some other crazy exaggeration and when you actually inspect them, it'll just be some heavy bruising, or an easily repaired torsion or something.”
“It’s important to ignore their screams and actually assess how bad the damage is as an objective medical professional. A lot of times, we can avoid cutting them open at all. Simple scrotal manipulations and a good ice pack can go a long way to saving a ball, even for some severe-looking injuries.”
“Oh.” Yvette sounded disappointed. “So…we won't be doing surgery tonight?”
“I didn't say that. We just have to use it only when appropriate, and balance the resources we have. We’ll triage our patients appropriately, and give each of them as much healing as we can reasonably afford. If they don't need more than that, they won't get more than that.”
“On the other hand, some will come to us with nothing we can salvage between their legs; these cases will be really sad, but we can't focus on how devastating their loss is while we have viable testes we can save. We triage the eunuchs and near-eunuchs lower than the fully intact men if it comes down to it, and those get prioritized below the partially intact ones we can still save.”
“And if we have to choose between laboriously repairing a full manhood, and quickly stitching up a single testicle, we always prioritize saving at least one ball per man; if one guy has to lose his first ball so another can keep his last, that's the more ethical choice for us. Men won’t like to hear it, but they really can get by with just one.”
“Just...use your intuition, and common sense, and be prepared to think outside the box. Not everything we do here is going to be in your medical textbook.” Tamara wondered if the privileged kid had ever had to crack open a textbook, or if mom just bought her grades directly from the professors.
“Okay! Wow, you're so professional and serious. I'm really excited to learn from you! Um…some quick questions though.”
“Yes?”
“What's a ‘eunuch’? And a ‘torsion’? And ‘triage’?”
Tamara sighed deeply. It was going to be a long shift.
Back on the venue floor, Andrea was getting into the swing of the concert. The band played on stage, the multicolor-haired women screaming through another epic banger of a track*.*
Kick him till he cries
Kick him till they’re mush
Stomp his last ball till it dies
Don’t give up at the first crunch*!*
Andrea always thought the lyrics were a little on the nose, but the tune was catchy as fuck.
She gyrated against her boyfriend's cock, which was now throbbing hard, nearly tearing right through the far too tight jeans she'd packed him into. Meanwhile, she taught him the finer points of making out while dancing. Her lips were locked to his, her tongue darting against his as she teased his cock. She could feel every delicious quiver that went through him, and he’d begun subconsciously grinding against her leg like a good little slut. When they pulled up for air, she looked around and drank in the collage of testicular violence of a good Pop! show.
One unlucky, unowned guy had two young women working together, in front of and behind him. The one behind would hold him up, arms locked behind his back, while the other unleashed a brutal kick to his crotch. When he fell to the ground, the mocking, pale black-haired woman in front of him would lift him by his armpits and hold his legs apart so her blonde companion could get in a kick of her own. The women were cuffed to each other; Andrea hoped the man would have something intact between his legs once the sapphic lovers were done with him. But she strongly doubted it, based on the increasingly loud squicks his manhood was emitting and snippets of the girls’ mocking words.
“...Did you plan on losing your virginity? You’ll have to kiss that dream goodbye when we’re done. No more boners, no more sex, no more cumming.”
In another corner, what initially appeared to be another lesbian couple was actually a man and a woman cuffed together. It was hard to tell, given his girlish squeaks and choice of clothing, but the small feminine ballsack hanging well below his ultrashort miniskirt told the truth of his sex. His girlfriend was squeezing his package tightly, and as Andrea watched, she slowly rotated it around, each twist of his ball cords against each other taking her slightly more pressure than the last. Each crunching twist took another inch away from his slack, stretched nutcords, forcing his balls to inch up closer and closer as she thoughtlessly gave him an incredibly bad case of testicular torsion.
Andrea drove her tongue back down her lover's throat. Lucas's hand moved questioningly upward; she answered the question by grabbing it and forcefully moving it to her boob, wordlessly instructing him to pinch her nipple. He moaned appreciatively, not stopping their kiss to speak.
The desperate cries and wet crunches throughout the room had left her randy enough to need more than just a little nipple stimulation, though. She grabbed his cuffed hand that encircled her waist and moved it between her thighs, pressing it into her needy clit. Girl drool gushed between his fingers as he pressed hard into the little button, circling counterclockwise just like she had taught him. His other hand grabbed her left buttcheek and pinched lasciviously, as he twiddled her nipple and fingered her—
Wait.
That was too many hands.
Without another thought, she brought her leather heel upwards and back as hard as she could. The groper behind her let out a tortured oof. She repeated it, again and again, keeping Lucas focused on her pleasure as she felt the testicle beneath her heel begin to soften and crack apart. She would’ve stopped if he’d let go, and maybe left the asshole with two functional testes. But said asshole made the baffling choice to keep his hold on her massive ass, although his strength was weakening with each percussive donkey kick. Subconsciously, she kept every kick synchronized with the pulsing beat of the band onstage.
“KICK. STOMP. KNEE. REPEAT.”
“KICK. STOMP. KNEE. REPEAT.”
**“**CRUNCH. POP. SQUICK. DEFEAT.”
“LEAVE. HIM NEUTERED. IN. THE STREET.”
Her wonderful subby nerd didn't even stop fingering her as her thigh clenched with each powerful back kick. She wondered if he even noticed the halfstration she was inflicting; he seemed fully concentrated on his job at hand.
Lucas's timing was inadvertently perfect; he pressed into her clit just a little harder right as she felt the soft orb collapse beneath her heel. She flushed and moaned as her boyfriend kept rubbing her, pushing her up to and well past her climax. Behind her, she kept her heel lifted up, pressing it into the mushiness she’d just created in the scrotum behind her, making sure every bit of testicle was broken badly enough that even her sister couldn’t repair it.
“KICK. STOMP. KNEE. AGAIN.”
“KICK. STOMP. KNEE. AGAIN*.”*
“CRACK. SNAP. END. HIS BLOOD-LINE.”
“LEAVE. HIM STERILE. FOREVER, CRYING.”
A hard finger between her legs, and a halfstrated man against her heel – it was heaven. Andrea screamed into her boyfriend's mouth through her second climax, grabbing his hand forcefully and pressing it against her, slipping his middle finger up and inside to reach her g-spot while his thumb continued to stimulate her clit. She rode his hand to an intense aftershock, and then another, mini orgasms piling up on top of each other as she enjoyed what she’d just taken from the pervert behind.
When she pulled back from him, her face adorned with a sheen of sweat and a small open-mouthed smile, Lucas had a smug grin on his face.
“That’s for jerking me off on the dance floor on our second date.”
She laughed. “Yeah, you really got me back there. Great revenge, I’m so defeated. Let’s get some drinks. I think they’ve got your ‘favorite’ scotch here. Let me just chat with this guy for a second.” She turned to the skinny loser who had assaulted her. Bending over, she got right up next to his ear.
“What’s your name, stud?”
“Grey…Greyson, ma’am.”
“Was it worth it, Greyson?”
He was moaning, tears streaking his cheeks. His hands were clutched between his legs, and Andrea recognized the subtle motion of his left one: he was rolling his recently half-emptied ballsack around, looking for the precious organ she’d just taken from him, confused and in shock from the pain and torture of a quickly ruptured testicle.
“GOD yes.”
But his other hand…was also making a familiar motion. A small, but repetitive one. Up and down. Very quickly. And despite his obvious excruciation, he was smiling a little. No, gasping. He started to convulse, and Andrea recognized the extinction pulse he was encouraging out of his remaining testicle.
Greyson had enjoyed it. She drew back in disgust.
“Yes. God yes, it was worth it. Thank you so much for taking my ball, ma’am. Could you…be so kind as to sit on my face, Goddess? Dommy mommy? Please please oh god fucking–” He started to buck, and a dark stain spread across his zipper as his eyes rolled back into his head. “GOD it hurts so good. Thank you thank you thank youuuu!”
The nut popping kinksters at these shows were just the fucking worst. “Ugh. Go to the medical tent when you’re done cumming, unless you want me to take the other one. That is so gross.”
“YES, PLEASE!”
“No. Ew. Just…Go.”
Lucas frowned as they headed to the bar. “Did you…know that guy?”
“No. I mean…I know his type. But no.” She sighed at his confusion.
“I just killed one of his balls, okay? Trust me, he deserved it; it’s not a big deal. Now come on. I don’t want to be sober for this next song.”
Tamara handed another ice pack and a couple pills to her most recent patient. The boy hobbled out of the medical tent, grateful for the temporary reprieve but clearly dreading his return to the dance floor.
It was an hour into the show, and they hadn’t had anything worse than some severe bruising to deal with. Tamara was grateful for that; she doubted Yvette could handle anything more medically complex than handing out ice and Tylenol. But she knew her luck wouldn’t last long.
Right on cue, three guys hobbled in, each with their testicles in a different state of disarray. The femboy, complete with a full face of makeup and lewdly inappropriate miniskirt, was still tethered to his owner, who slipped her cuff off to leave her boytoy unprotected. His scrotum was a tangled mess beneath his girly clothes. Next to him, a very confused-looking man was clutching a bloated scrotum poking out of his fly. Between his hands, Tamara could see the two identical black bruises on each testicle, along with a webbing across their surface of other less severe bruises. And on the far right was a scrotum with the unmistakable asymmetry of a popped testicle.
Tamara was truly her sister’s twin; with a lifetime of practice, she needed little more than a glance to precisely assess common testicular injuries like these three. It’s why she’d gone into this career in the first place; her natural testicular savantry made her outcompete her peers with ease. In some ways, being Andrea’s sister taught her more about broken, twisted, ruptured and deadened testes than her years of medical school.
She was also her sister’s twin in one more important way. She tried to keep her head clear as she flushed involuntarily at the sight of the three damaged scrota in front of her. She was here to heal, not to hurt, no matter what her libido cried out for. Tamara focused on the job at hand; she’d have time to luxuriously pleasure herself to the memory once she got home.
The girl cuffed to the femboy slid her cuff off his wrist. “Hiii! I’m Kaitlin, and this is Felix. I swear I didn’t go too hard on him—I honestly didn’t even kick him, just twisted them up a bit, so I figured it wasn’t a big deal, but he kept complaining about the pain so I thought I’d bring him by. You girls should be able to untangle them, right? I’ll be back when you’re done!” The girl walked off before they could respond, leaving her unprotected pet to crumple to the floor.
The pea-sized pair of testes dangling between his hairless, trembling loins was in bad shape, but the fix was simple. The wrinkled knot through his spermatic cords was an obvious double torsion. Specifically, it looked like eight and a half twists, counter-clockwise, with some bruising in his epididymides from his owner’s thumbnail. Without treatment, his circulation would be cut off and he’d have to be castrated, but this solve was so easy surely even an intern could figure it out.
The well-hung man beside him had even more mild injuries, medically speaking, although she was sure he was in an enormous amount of pain. Tamara inspected and assessed his bruises. He’d clearly taken two fairly hard hits, which other girls had taken as an invitation for a flurry of follow-up attacks. Despite this, she could tell he wasn’t even slightly ruptured; the extent of his injuries needed little more than some comforting words and an ice pack. A local anesthetic or some stronger painkillers would’ve been ideal, but he’d have to make do with the Tylenol.
And the third…Looked to be their first genuinely serious injury for the night. A ruptured testicle that would definitely require surgery. Tamara winced at his plight, but strangely, the man seemed to be the calmest of the three. He smiled benignly at Tamara as she ogled his injury. The stain down his jeans showed that he’d already pulsed at least, which was nice. Tamara hated when guys orgasmed on her mid-surgery.
“Hey,” the owner of the halfway-destroyed ballsack chuckled. “I’m Greyson. I believe I had one of my testicles ruptured. She was very thorough; I doubt there’s much left to try and save. Which one of you two lovely ladies wants to make me into a uniballer officially?”
“Can I?!” Yvette begged Tamara. “Please please please? I can totally snip him off! He’s right, that thing’s totally mush, let me have it! I could really use the practice with a scalpel.” Greyson’s easy grin wavered at Yvette’s last sentence.
“Absolutely not.” Tamara did not trust Yvette anywhere near a scalpel. “Take the other two to your station. These should be easy solves, Yvette; don’t try anything fancy. Nobody should lose a ball in there today.”
Yvette frowned with disappointment. “But I want to do the surgery…”
“Later.” Tamara meant never, if she could help it, but she knew as the night went on, she would have to start triaging more severe injuries to the clueless girl. But for now, she could do better than that.
With her surgical suite relatively empty, she had time for a simple testicular extraction and cleanup. She laid the soon-to-be half-eunuch down on a medical bed and eased him behind the curtains to her improvised operating room, trying her best to ignore the growing heat and dripping wetness between her own thighs.
Yvette led the other two patients to her own curtained station.
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