I was younger than I am now and studied in the last grades of school (let's assume that I have already turned 18) - in Russia we call it the 11th final grade.
On a friend's birthday, we went to play paintball.
We were definitely forbidden to shoot at each other if we are closer than 3-4 meters away, in such cases we need to say "killed" in a voice. This rule was caused by the fact that the boys, who were very excited about the opportunities to run and play shooting games, asked the instructors to install a more hardcore shooting mode on paintball guns (as far as I understand, the force of the ball's departure is controlled by the degree of pressure that launches the projectile, and this pressure was turned to the maximum).
We were given classic protection, helmets, glasses, even mouth and face protection in the form of masks, body armor (of course they had protection on the groin, the body armor just had an extension of the fabric). But we were warned that bulletproof vests would not save us much from bruising, with such a harshness of shots.
I walked around the location (made up of a pile of broken wooden boxes, cardboard walls, and inflatable protective blocks). And I saw a guy from my own team, he was standing on such an elevation with a ladder, that is, it was just the frame of a small plywood tower, and in order not to stand with his whole body on its second floor and be covered by walls, he climbed onto the ladder, leaned on it with his body, and conveniently placed the weapon on the floor of the "second floors". He didn't hear me, as I came up from the side and ended up standing on the first floor of the tower. And his head and the upper half of his body were sticking out from the other side, and he was very involved in a shootout with someone. As a result, I have the following picture in front of me: a staircase and, almost in the subway from me, a guy on it leaning forward so that his groin (he was partially covered with a bulletproof vest) sticks out between the stairs. This asshole Maksim often bothered me at school, and by that time I had finally developed a love for beating such a beautiful part of the male anatomy sooo…
I know it's terrible! But the adrenaline and the slight excitement of anticipation had already gone to my head. And God, I couldn't miss this opportunity, I looked around to make sure we were alone here, and took aim with great enthusiasm and fear of missing such a chance.
Then I quickly fired about 3 shots straight at his balls and ran around the corner before I was discovered (fortunately, the color of the bullets was universally yellow, so it was impossible to figure out who exactly it was from the teams). It would have been nice to see the result of my villainies in all its glory, but I got no less pleasure from the sound of a scream that rang out a few seconds later behind my back. No, it wasn't a cry of "oh my God, my balls" or anything like that, we're not in a cheap made-up story. It was a choice expletive and a cry of resentment. But along with the inner triumph, to my horror and shame, just a few minutes later, I saw my teammate around the corner, and a familiar voice from under the helmet. Fuck, it was Maxim, then whose balls I'd just kicked?…
After the match, it turned out that it was Sergey, my bestie’s boyfriend, and also my friend... I was very ashamed, but I still haven't confessed to them...
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