Lawn Service
GAY, TESTICLES
A slave learns of his Master\'s plan for his castration.
` LAWN SERVICE `

Master had already fired two lawn services because they didn't cut the lawn at
a consistent two-inch height. Now, don't get me wrong, I love him dearly, but
precision and neatness are not among Master's virtues. This didn't quite ring
true to his form. He said it was just to facilitate his passion for playing
golf. But I suspected the real reason was he just didn't find the crews cute
enough. Or not quite his type. I was very suspicious and very jealous. But as
a slave, what did I have to say in the matter?

We had been engaging in Master / slave experiences for nearly a year and a
half when he decided he wanted me to quit my job, give up my apartment, and
become his full-time whipping boy. I was ecstatic.

The relationship was everything I expected and hoped it would be. I was beaten
and fucked regularly. I'd been whipped, branded, and tattooed. I was kept
nude, summer and winter, inside and out. My nipples were pierced and had been
pumped so much they now extended three-quarters of an inch from my chest. I'd
had weights on my balls so often and for so long, they now dangled a good five
inches below my rigid prick.

Best of all was the bondage and torture. Master often had me cramped in a cage
in the basement. I've been mummified in the closet for days at a time with a
feeding tube and a catheter as the only openings. I've been stretched on racks
and crosses. I've been manacled to slings. But my all time favorite was being
buried alive.

Master kept a shallow trough dug in the back yard covered with a metal plate
and a layer of turf. Only two openings: a breathing tube and a small removable
plate above my crotch for torture.

Often after an evening of discipline, Master led me to the backyard, unearthed
the steel plate and had me lie down in the hole. There was no need to tie me.
By the time the metal and grass had been replaced, I wasn't going anywhere.

"Sleep good. We'll practice golf in the morning." He shouted this parting
comment this time.

I had slept, but the morning chill had penetrated the ground, and by the time
he pulled aside the metal plate, I was shivering. His warm piss splashing into
my crotch felt almost hot.

Then he attached the three-inch stretcher to my sack and locked the plate
tightly in place against the binding. That placed my balls even with the top
of the grass where he placed a golf tee into my nut sack piercing. He was
ready to practice his golf swing.

He was particularly brutal this morning. The screams echoed in the confined
space, and I nearly deafened myself. Finally he stopped. I fully expected that
he'd get me out then, as he often did.

Instead, he shouted in to me. "Breakfast time. I'll be back. Meantime, think
about this: I've chosen today as the day for your ultimate slave sacrifice."

I shuddered. I had known all along that eventually I'd be castrated, but had
expected more notice to prepare myself. I was wondering how he planned to do
it when I heard a distant motor. That's when I remembered it was the day for
the lawn service crew, with its riding mower set at the depth of precisely two
inches.  

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