All characters in this story are 18 . This is extreme, involves non-con ballbusting, threats of castration, true torture, etc. If you don't like that PLEASE don't read. It's also long. I haven't written something like this before, and I'm trying to decide if I'm good enough to continue this story, so please let me know. Also, would you want Devon, different men, etc.?

Devon had to remind himself every day that he didn’t mind being a ballbusting-slut. He had to remind himself of that when he got up, when he got dressed, when he went to work. Remind himself that after he got in his car, got to the brothel, took one last pain med, and walked into the seedy hotel building. The building secretly hiding chains. 

If he were a ballbusting slut as punishment for something he had done, the pain meds wouldn’t be allowed. But the only thing Devon was being punished for was being poor– and therefore a pain slave. He only had to do this for a bit longer though, and he wouldn’t be. Someone would buy him. That’s what he told himself, despite working at the lowest, cheapest, dirtiest brothel around. The only good part about it was that the woman owning it, Marlea, generally protected her boys. Only let the people give them what they paid for, didn’t allow back those that illegally castrated, and the like. But things happened. 

Marlea smiled at Devon when he came in. “I already have someone waiting for you in room 3. First time here, high payer with tip, requested no begging and specifically you. Loved the pictures of your bruised and bleeding balls online,” she teased, giving them a little smack that caused him to wince. He had fairly big balls, kept bigger by their constant torment, as one of the only boys she had regularly and not for a night or two. She didn’t have many men there who were ballbusting sluts for punishment, and many men picked up a few days when really desperate, then couldn’t handle it. 

Devon stepped into room 3. It wasn’t one he really minded, a bed, handcuffs, a chest of toys, etc. Nothing too extreme. 

“Hey, uh, can you take off, your uhm– you know?” The woman standing before him was a redhead, sweet, nervous, in casual jeans and a nice blouse. New to this, apparently. 

“Just my pants, or everything?”

“Oh, I don’t really care to see you, just your uh–”

“My balls?” Devon said with a small smile. He took off his shoes and pulled off his pants and underwear. “Where do you want me?”

“On the bed, I guess.” 

Devon climbed on the bed and put his arms and legs to the corners. He wasn’t even sure she was going to restrain him, but you never knew. 

She giggled, clearly nervous, and he wasn’t sure she was even turned on. She took the handcuffs and struggled with them for a moment before snapping one into place. “That hurt?”

“Compared to what you’re about to do to me? No, that doesn’t hurt at all.”

She giggled again, and did his other arm, then his feet. “Can you, you know, pull on them for a second? I want to make sure you can’t hurt me if I hurt you.” 

He struggled, showing her, and yanked for a moment then laying back down. “I promise not to hurt you, honey. Not even if you hurt me.” He didn’t think she would hurt him too bad, but people often surprised him. 

“Okay. Okay. Perfect.” She giggled and positioned herself crawling over his knees, then sat, looking at his cock and balls. “Oh, it’s in the way.”

He saw that she meant his cock and wished he could ask her to touch it, get it hard and out of the way that way, but he knew better.

Still, she seemed to know what he wanted when he looked at her, so she gave it a few tentative strokes, then giggled as it gave a twitch. “Isn’t it supposed to be hard already? I know you can’t come without a woman. You would think it would be, you know, desperate.” 

It certainly was, but he also wasn’t turned on by the ballbusting, and his cock was uncertain. However, after another stroke or two, it was certainly at full mast. 

She giggled. “There we go. Ready?” 

His whole body tensed, but he didn’t argue. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

She gave it the gentlest of taps, and it felt sort of light it had gotten poked. He coughed to hide a laugh. 

“Oh, you’re right, that didn’t hurt,” she said. “Maybe I should try harder. What do you think?”

“Whatever you want ma’am.”

“Oh, ma’am? I like that.” She paused. “Do you like this?” She took a finger and dug it into his balls, but didn’t hold it still while she did it. Still, with how sore, sensitive, and covered in bruises his ball was, he couldn’t help but let out a squeak. 

“That does sound like you liked it,” she squealed. “But I want to do better. Can you teach me how to do better?” 

He paused, uncertain if that was something he wanted to do.

“If you teach me, I’ll get you out of here. Pay for your freedom. I know you’re not here as punishment,” She said. He thought maybe she meant it, with how gentle she was being. Maybe the type to hurt men who deserved it.

“Well, uhm, if you hold it still while you’re poking it, and–” 

She grabbed it roughly, holding it tight, and dug in a finger. He jumped the best he could in the cuffs and yelped. 

“How else can I do it better?” 

He didn’t want to answer, but he remembered the promise of getting out of here. “Use your thumb instead of your finger.” 

She did that, and he pulled against the bonds, yelping. 

“How else?” She said without a pause. 

“Uh, uh–” 

“I’ll get you out of here. I promise.” 

“Pull down while you press it. On the ball, I mean.” 

She yanked on it and dug her thumb in, and he screamed. She laughed this time. Not giggled, laughed. “Let me do that a few more times, then maybe I’ll be done.” 

He knew better than to argue, and he only expected her to do it once or twice, but when he felt the constant yank and jab he thought it must have been ten. All he could do is scream and thrash. But he knew better than to beg if she didn’t tell him to. 

“Okay, I’m done,” she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, with that, anyway. I want to try something new.” 

He groaned again, but didn’t say anything. 

“What else could I do?” she asked. “To hurt you more. Just a bit.” 

“There are toys in the box at the end of the bed,” he said. 

She jumped off the bed and went down to open the large chest. He couldn’t see it, but knew it was filled with toys. His opened his eyes when she climbed back on him, and she was holding a flogger, leather, but not thick, not hard. It would hurt, but not damage. 

He thought he would have to teach her how to use it, but she pulled it behind her head and smacked it down on him hard, causing him to screech. “Hmm,” she said, “I like this. Count for me.”

“To what?”

“Just count.” She smacked him. 

“One.” She smacked him again. “Two. Three. Four. Five.” Then he felt something hard smash against his ball. “Wha– si– seven–” All his breath was gone.

“Oops. We’re starting over. You need to learn how to count.” She hit him with the hard thing immediately and he opened his eyes to count as he saw that she was hitting him with the hard handle of the flogger, but she couldn’t aim well with the handle, which helped, sometimes hitting his thighs and cock, which was waning, rather than his balls. 

“What is something I can use that will be hard like this but easier to aim?” she asked. 

“Uh– uh– there is a a small bat in there. It’s extra price, since it’s solid.” 

“That’s not a problem,” she said, reaching in to pull out the bat, then before he could see what she had, she said, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“About what?”

“Guess right, and maybe I’ll only hit you half the times.”

He remembered everything in the box, trying to figure out what it could be. It was filled with exciting toys. “The, uh, the– the hammer?”

She giggled. “Oh, there’s a hammer in here?” She dropped whatever she had and dug in for the hammer. He groaned. The hammer was the worst, and he wondered if he should refuse it. He could. Anything solid he was allowed to refuse, since he was there for slavery, not punishment. 

She jumped back on the bed. “What do you think of this?” She was holding the wooden handle, the thick metal head. He gulped. 

“Whatever you want.” If she was offering him money, maybe he shouldn’t refuse. “Just remember, they have to be able to heal.” 

“Just not right away, right?” she teased. 

“If I have to take time off work, you have to pay for it.” 

“Of course, but I’m getting you out of here, remember? Now, let’s just see if you jump much. This will be soft. I promise.” 

He had told himself long ago that it was better to open his eyes than close him, though not all his coworkers agreed. So, when he saw her lift up the hammer all the way up above her head and it came swinging down he screamed before it hit him, and he jumped, definitely. Then, the screamed became a blood-curling shriek. 

“Didn’t count,” she said. “As soon as you count high enough, I’ll stop. Just have to focus on counting.”

“How– how–” he started, getting ready to ask how high to count, but before she could finish, the hammer hit him again. He screamed. 

“Oh, that wasn’t one,” she said as the hammer hit him again. 

“Two, two, two,” he shrieked. “Two, two.”

“Oh, but you never said one,” she said as it hit him again. 

He swore he could feel it bursting, but he screamed, “One.” 

“Oh, what a good boy,” she teased, and the hammer hit him again. 

“One,” he screamed, since that was the only number he remembered. 

“Oh no, we’ll have to start over.” 

It hit him again, and he screamed, “Two, two.”

“I said we were starting over.”The hammer hit him again. “One,” he screamed, his body wracked with sobs, and every inch of him dripping from tears and sweat. 

It hit him again. “Two.” 

“Oh, such a good boy, you made it all the way to two. How high do you think you’ll need to go?”

“Three,” he screamed as it hit him again.

“Oh sorry,” she said, “The answer wasn’t three. I said you had to get it right to stop.”

 It hit him again and he screamed, “Stop, stop, please stop. Please. Please.” 

“Oh, I requested you not to beg, poor, poor boy.” 

She stepped back off the bed, and his eyes were still closed, as he shook and shook, unsure if he was screaming or sobbing. The pain between his legs was so unbearable he couldn’t tell if it was salvageable.

“If you beg when I tell you not to, I can castrate you.” 

He wanted to argue, but instead, he just wept. He couldn’t beg anymore. At this point, he didn’t care. If she castrated him, he couldn’t do this job, his pain-slut regulations would be no longer ball-based. Could it be worse? 

He felt something cold and metal press against his balls and opened his eyes to see a knife blade against the flattened purple-ness that were his balls. She pressed a little deeper and there was a red line, but he didn’t argue. 

“Of course, if I castrate you, I can’t come back.”

“You said you were going to get me out.” He sobbed.

“That was before you begged. I’ll be back soon. If you don’t beg next time, I promise to get you out.”  She sliced the knife across, and the cut wasn’t deep, but it was a sharp reminder. Then she left.