Brads Balls

 I am a ball-busting bitch. What I mean by that is, I get off on making men suffer. Specifically—and I want to make this clear in no uncertain terms—I do this by exploiting their most easily accessed, eminently vulnerable, and extremely delicate weakness. I'm talking about their balls, boys and girls. Their testicles. Their dangling doolies. Their nausea-inducing nut-sacks. Have I got your attention? I think I heard a few girls in the audience giggle, and a few of the boys cringe in fear. You should be afraid, boys. You should be very afraid.

How long have I been like this? Well, I can't tell you exactly when this fascination began. Like all fetishes, it started with something innocent. Well, relatively innocent. My childhood memories at this point are vague, but I remember spending a lot of time in the principal's office after some boy who'd been teasing me had then been found on the ground crying his eyes out, and moaning and clutching their groin. Claiming, once he could eventually speak intelligibly again, that I'd kicked him in his delicates. I don't remember what this boy had done to me exactly. It was probably a slight of some kind, and likely one that was largely imaginary. What can I say? A lot of kids misbehave, and throw tantrums. At a very early age, I'd somehow intuited that if you kick a boy there, the fight's over, and he's not getting back up for awhile.

Flash forward to a few years later. In high school, it's more or less the same story, but the memories are more distinct. And by high school, I'd developed a reputation, and I think that reputation did me no favors. My body had developed, and the boys had started to notice me, and—I don't mind telling you—I kind of enjoyed the glances I got. I'd make a special point of wearing the most revealing, torn clothes I could. I was a Goth girl, so this would come complete with a choker, and a lacy bra, and perhaps a see-through top that exposed my midriff, and then maybe a plaid mini-skirt to drive the boys wild. You might think I got a lot of action in high school because of this, but you'd be wrong. A side effect of my reputation was that all the boys were too afraid of me to ask me out. Though some of them wouldn't admit to being afraid of me, and would try to provoke me, saying a tiny girl like me was no match for them anymore. It was also around this time that the boys started to get really big, so I started taking women's self-defense classes to make sure I learned everything I could about how to protect myself against a man twice my size. The result was a lot of macho guys hollering at me, taunting me, and then winding up on the floor, writhing, vomiting, passing out, or some combination of all three, after just one well-timed and well-practiced kick.

Oh—did I mention I was also a cheerleader? And believe me when I say, we cheerleaders learn to kick. And we can kick hard!

 

****

 

Cut to university. Present Day—or at least, just last week.

I'm going to admit something else now too. At 19, I was still a virgin. It wasn't for lack of offers—believe me, there were many—though as time went on, those offers did become few and far between. My reputation preceded me, and generally, the college boys wanted very little to do with me. And the college girls, well…here's the thing about women. Women hate women. Especially when they think you're prettier than they are. The problem, ladies—and yes, I'm talking to you now, for the moment—is that we can be horribly dishonest with ourselves. Almost as dishonest and deluded as men can be. Almost. Women will hate other women but not know why, or at least pretend not to know why. But I'm only all-too-aware of why. When I'm on the street and a man walks by with a woman under his arm, he'll still look at me, and he'll think she doesn't notice. But boys, just to be clear—yes, I'm talking to you now—she does notice, though not for the reason you think. She's simply also noticed the pretty girl, and she knows, whether you'll admit to it or not, that you're looking at her, and that you're thinking about how much better it would be to be with a hot girl like her. A hot girl like me. And your girlfriend will blame me for that. Not you. Even though she's never even met me. I can't count the number of times I've passed by an average-looking guy on the street with a girl under his arm, and had her shoot me the dirtiest look, and close her arms protectively around her man. And I laugh to myself.

Bitch, I don't want your average-looking man! Get over yourself!

Although that may not exactly be true. Remember what I said about still being a virgin at nineteen? Well, it was starting to get to me. I was beginning to think I'd missed my window, and that now, at nineteen, no guy wanted to be the one to pop my cherry. I'm savvy. I use the internet. I know what the boys warn one another about. They seem to think that just because we lose our virginity to some otherwise average boy, we'll feel like we're his. Like were devoted now or something, and that we'll cling to him for dear life. This is a ridiculous myth, and it makes me sick.

Actually, you know what it makes me feel like doing? It makes me feel like kicking these men right in the goddamned balls! This actually happens a lot, and I think it's getting to be a problem. Because you know what, boys and girls? I get horny sometimes too. I get lonely too. And often enough, I'll be out and about, wearing a sexy dress at a club, and a guy will hit on me…and really…I like the attention. It’s a turn on! And then maybe we'll dance, and then we'll sneak off someplace and get frisky. And then he'll start trying to overpower me. After all, I'm not a big girl. I'm still quite petite and only 5'1". So he'll think I'm easy to control or whatever, and then my women's self-defense reflexes kick in, so to speak. Then up comes the knee, and down goes the boy. Down for the count.

And then I pretty much have to leave before he gets back up—aw who are we kidding? I've never seen a men get back up right after I've kicked him there. Sorry, guys, but for all your bragging and machismo, you're just really quite weak there. You're big, I'll give you that. You're way stronger—I'll grant you that too. But we can still take you. And we will always be able to. Sorry, boys. That's just how it is. Anyway, usually when that reflex kicks in, I need to get out of there before I get arrested.

 

****

 

So, with that off my chest, here’s a little about me. Like I said, I'm 5'1". Yes, I'm short. I'm also a mere 110 lbs, give or take. I've got curves though, and a rather generous bust, and hence all the attention I get. I can't exactly say I'm an effortless beauty. In fact, I think that's another myth. I work hard to stay fit. These days it's pole dancing, which is hard work, but it's also fun, and makes for great supplemental income if you're willing to dance in front of the boys. And I certainly am, for the right price.

Then there's Brad Houser, who's got me a little hot and bothered these days because, my god, he's fucking hot! At 6'1", he’s pretty much a full head taller than me, and he's maybe 220 lbs, maybe more. Like I said, a lot of guys out there really do outweigh me by a factor of 2. He's also a wrestling star at the university, and I admit, I've made a point of going to see some of his matches, and there is something that's a little exciting to me about watching a pair of grown, well-built boys in spandex suit wrestle on another for dominance. Sometimes when I go and see his matches, I wonder what it would be like to wrestle with him. And there's a part of me that's excited by the idea!

I first noticed Brad, by noticing him noticing me. That's often the way of things. The way I look, I seem to attract a lot of male attention. Usually I find it pretty tedious, but in Brad's case, it's become more of a fun little game. I'll play hard to get, and for his part, he'll play the patent hunter waiting to trap me. Waiting for that right time to make his move. Actually, in this case, I was uniquely frustrated by just how patient he seemed to be. It was a paradox of sorts, because I really wanted him to try to take me at some point, but I also knew that when he did, he'd likely wind up on the floor clutching his aching balls, and I'd be out of a proper suitor again. And this guy is…special.

I like Brad. Make no mistake about that. I'm not some man-hating bitch that wants to kick men in the balls out of spite. Well, not entirely, anyway. Like I said before, I get off on it, but I'm realizing more and more that this tendency of mine has made me alone. The boys, they're mostly afraid of me. And the girls, well, they just don't understand it. I think it's a power trip for me. Most women seem to be content to let the boys take control. But why let them take control when you can? I think God, or Mother Nature, or whoever the hell put testicles on the outside of males wanted females to dominate by targeting them. That just seems obvious to me.

 

****

 

It was perhaps my third or fourth date with Brad—depending on what you consider a proper date, since we've had a lot of 'hang-out' sessions too—when it finally happened. Up until this point, our relationship hadn't exactly been sexual, though I think both of us were trying to push it in that direction. At least I was. He'd invited me to watch some of his wrestling matches, which got me a little hot and bothered, so I wanted to even the score. I'd invited him to come and watch me pole dance, and for that particular time, I'd worn a particularly skimpy bikini and pumps, and I made eye contact with him, and sultrily shifted my shoulders and hips towards him for the entire time. And that's what finally did it, I like to think.

We were having a drink afterwards, and just talking about things. He'd been talking about his wrestling matches, and I'd suggested I could probably take him.

"I could probably take you," I said.

He laughed at that, and my inner ball-busting bitch stirred.

"There's no way you could take me," said Brad.

"Of course there is. You saw what I could do onstage tonight. That takes a lot of strength you know, to be able to hold myself upside down, hanging off the pole. You think that's easy?"

"I'm not trying to diminish your talent," he said. "It's just a simple matter of weight ratios. I'm a lot bigger than you, and far stronger, and anyway, I wouldn't want to hurt you. I mean—no offense—I know you work hard. It shows. And it's really sexy."

"Aw…" I said, blushing a little. "You really think so?"

"Yeah, of course! It's really…uh…kind of a turn on."

"Oh? Would you like a private dance?"

"What, you mean here?"

"No, of course not here," I said. "I don't expect you to pay me for a private dance. I want to give you one. I have my own pole at home in my living room. Do you want to come over? I could give you a private dance. We'd be alone together all night…" I said this last bit while biting my lip. What was it going to take to get Brad to take the hint? I was starting to get frustrated, and my inner bitch wanted to bust his balls for it.

"I'd like that," he said.

"You would?"

"Of course,” he said. “But are you sure you can trust me to behave?"

"Oh, you'll behave. Like I said, I can take you."

He laughed again.

"I don't think so."

"We'll see about that then," I said.

 

****

 

We finished our drinks and then he drove back me to my place while I directed him. He parked outside my apartment, which is a roomy basement apartment, so I can make it quite private, and it has the added bonus of being a lot bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside.

My pole is at the center of the room, and there's a couch seated in front of it. I'd often thought it would be fun to dance privately in front of someone, though up until this point, this had never actually happened. This would be the first time. Actually, if I got lucky tonight, it would be a number of first times for me.

"Nice place," he said.

"Thank you! Why don't you sit down? Can I get you another drink?"

"What have you got?"

"Beer. Wine. Milk. Juice. Water."

"I'll have a beer thanks."

I went to the fridge and got him one, and walked to him. Then I twisted off the top, with a satisfying sound of the breaking of pressure, and then I handed it to him. He took it and took the first sip, and then nearly spit it out when he saw what I did next.

I slipped off my dress and let it drop to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my pumps and my skimpy dancing bikini.

He seemed to almost instinctively reach for me, his eyes transfixed on my tits.

I gently smacked his hand, and he pulled it away.

"You agreed to watch me dance, remember?"

"Yes," he laughed. "Of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," I said with a smile. "I wouldn't have invited you in if I didn't know what I was getting myself into."

Then I danced for him while he drank his beer. Gradually, as I danced, I noticed him getting notably more excited and shifting around uncomfortably. Something was happening in the front of his pants, I could tell. Something was happening for me too, if I'm to be completely honest, and I could feel the first twinges of desire moisten down there. There's something about a hot guy watching me dance and wanting me that makes me feel complete as a woman. And I wanted him too. But I refused to make the first move. I danced, and showed him my sexiest, and most impressive moves, which included suspending myself horizontally with my arms, and suspending myself upside down with my legs. I broke a sweat while doing this too, either from trying harder than normal because I wanted to impress him, or because I was otherwise getting hot and bothered.

 

****

 

The music ended, and I stopped dancing.

"So what do you think?" I asked.

"That was amazing, Jessica," he said.

"It takes a lot of strength to do that, you know."

"I'm sure it does."

"Do you think you could pull off any of those moves?"

"Probably not," he confessed.

"So you still think you'd have the edge on me in a wrestling match?"

"Are you still on this? Jess, I've been wrestling for years! Since my junior year of high school. How much wrestling experience do you have?"

"Very little," I admitted.

"What on earth possesses you to think you'd stand any chance against me? I'm twice your size. I'm far stronger than you. Maybe you can hold your own hundred pound frame up on that pole, but can you oppose a two-hundred-twenty pound frame bearing down on you."

Admittedly, the thought of his two-hundred-twenty pound frame bearing down on me was getting me a little hot right now.

"Yes. I do," I said defiantly.

"Well, you're out of your mind," he said.

"Care to make it a wager?" I asked.

He narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously, and then took a drink from his beer.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm deadly serious," I said, extending my arms and taunting him, swaying my bikini-clad hips back and forth. "You think you can take me no problem? I say prove it."

"Oh, I'd like to take you," he said. "Just not in the way I think you mean."

"Oh really? And what way is that?" I asked.

He looked embarrassed and adjusted his crotch again. Obviously there was a raging erection down there.

"I kind of want to have sex with you," he said sheepishly.

"Only kind of?"

"Okay…really badly," he admitted.

I smiled triumphantly. Now I had him right where I wanted him.

"Well," I started. "If you can manage to beat me in a wrestling match, then you can…have me!"

"Are you serious?" he said.

"You keep asking me that. What makes you think I'm not?"

"I just don't want to hurt you, that's all. I like you."

"You don't have to hurt me," I said. "You just have to pin me down for ten seconds. And look at me. Would you really want to pass up an opportunity to wrestle with this? And if you win, Brad. Then you can do whatever you want with me. You could tie me up…You could tease me…You could fuck me…all night. Until the sun comes up."

"Really?" he said.

"Really. Whatever you want. I even have a pair of handcuffs you could use to restrain me if you like. Not that a big guy like you would need them of course. But you could. I think I'd even like that. And you could do anything you want."

"I don't really see how I could turn an offer like that down," he said, adjusting his crotch again. Look greedily at my goodies.

"But if I win, I get to handcuff you."

"Fine," he said. "But you won't win."

"Don't be so sure," I said.

"Really? How do you expect to win?"

"I just need to keep you on the floor for ten seconds, right?"

"Right. But I don't see any way you could achieve that."

"We'll see. Ready?"

He shrugged, put down his beer, and then got to his feet. Then got into his wrestling stance.

"Ready," he said.