Vienna Fingers'
Motherly Love

Since her husband Bill had died two years ago, the brat had gotten way of hand. Actually the brat was aptly named Brad and happened to be an extremely good-looking, athletic, brown-haired and brown-eyed eighteen year old teenager.

In fact, Mrs Jorgensen suspected, no, she knew, that the boy's good looks and perfect body were the reason for his downfall. Since he had discovered sexuality his grades had taken a downward dive and he had flunked a class, being still in High School though he was already eighteen.

And it didn't seem hard for him to pick up girls or -- Mrs Jorgensen had heard shocking rumours -- even boys. Plus in the last year Brad had taken a liking to alcohol and came home quite drunk every night -- or rather every morning.

So, finally, Mrs Jorgensen had reached a decision. She had talked to her good friend Dr Jenny Matthews, a famous urologist, and told her about the grief the rebellious boy was causing her. She had also confided in her as to the solution she had in mind.

Dr Matthews had pondered the problem, had even talked to Brad, who was not reasonable at all, and had finally agreed that Mrs Jorgensen was right and she would assist her in any way she could. So, Mrs Jorgensen had prepared everything and was now, at half past one a.m., waiting for the brat to return home so she could start the operation.

Suddenly she heard the door open, then close softly. Just as the boy was tiptoeing through the corridor Mrs Jorgensen switched on the light. And there was the perfect young specimen, stopped in mid-step, brown and misleadingly innocent eyes opened wide in surprise, brown, sweaty hair hanging into his forehead, his mouth with those sensuous, fleshy red lips slightly ajar.

Only after a while he managed to say,


"Yes, it's Mom, you miserable little brat! Do you know what time it is?"

"Well, I...!"

"Oh, shut up, Brad! You've been drinking again, I can smell the alcohol on your breath! And god knows what else you've been doing...!"

The boy wiped the hair from his forehead, swaying a little.
"No, Mom, I just...."

"I told you to shut up. The time for talking is past. I've been patient long enough and you've had your chance. You blew it, young man! Now it's time for action."

Brad had never seen his mother like this. She had always made a fuss about his coming home so late and so on, but she'd never been this stern, this ... frightening.

Brad swallowed. But since his throat was dry from too much beer and wine, he had to cough, which sent tears into his eyes. And as he looked now into his mother's eyes rather shyly, any mother's heart would have melted.

But not Mrs Jorgensen's. She knew her son, she knew the devil inside him, and she knew ... as her gaze went to Brad's bulging crotch in his jeans -- where it was located. No, Mrs Jorgensen would not waver, she was a patient woman but once she had set her mind on something she carried it through. And, a part of her wickedly thought, it would hurt her son more than it would hurt her.

"Into the living room, Brad! NOW!"
The teenager followed her doggedly, drunken and confused and a little bit frightened. When the lights went on he immediately saw that a long, broad, heavy wooden ladder had been placed in the middle of the room. What the hell for? his drugged mind behind his cute face couldn't understand.
"Get undressed, Brad", Mrs Jorgensen said in an imperative but soft voice.
Brad was sure he had mistaken the words and looked at his mother disbelievingly. But she repeated:
"Get undressed, boy. Now and fast. My patience is running out."

"But ... Mom...!"

"I said, shut up! And get those clothes of. RIGHT NOW!"

She took a step towards Brad and the look in her eyes made the boy wince. This couldn't be his mother, this was some kind of a Fury. But, before his brain even registered, Brad started undressing. He took his jacket off, then his T-Shirt, presenting his bare upper body to his mother. He hesitated for a moment, then took off his shoes and pushed down his jeans. Finally the socks came off. Then he stood there, not daring to look at his mother, not believing she would want him to undress further. But his hopes were shattered.
"When I say undress, I mean undress! Undress completely!"
Brad blushed to the roots of his hair but, after a seemingly endless pause, obliged. He slipped out of his shorts, tossed them aside and stood in all his naked, eighteen-year old glory in the glaring light, his eyes fixed on the carpet.

Watching her naked son Mrs Jorgensen started to understand why every girl (and boy) fell for Brad. Large red-brown nipples protruded from fleshy pectorals, the horizontal lines of his knotty abdominal muscles were clearly defined and his muscular bicepses seemed even now, arms hanging limply at the boy's side, to rip through his silken, lightly tanned skin, blue veins visible. But, Mrs Jorgensen thought, she would get a chance to see these muscles flex tonight, if not in pleasure but in pain. As she would see his meaty, powerful thigh-muscles and his strong, oval-shaped calf-muscles tense in agony. But Brad's main attraction were, of course, those organs that defined his manhood. The boy's cock was incredibly long and thick -- in fact, it must have been almost ten inches long and about two inches wide -- with thick, dark-blue veins pulsating beneath the brownish skin. His glans showed a fiery red. Beneath this proud member were equally low-hanging balls almost the size of hens-eggs. Yes, there had to be a lot of fertile boy-semen captured in there, waiting to push upwards and upwards and outwards through the erect and quivering cock, erupting in powerful waves as huge load after huge load of sticky white come was ejected from the jerking, sweating, powerful young body and a mind-blowing orgasm filled brat Brad's mind, blotting out every coherent thought ... thoughts like learning or behaving or respecting his elders....

Well, no more. Mrs Jorgensen tore her eyes from her son's physique and said crisply:

"Okay, stand with your back to the ladder and climb the first rung."

"But, Mom, why...?"

"Don't always ask stupid questions! Do as you're told!"

Numbed by the humiliation of being stark naked in front of his mother and still not sober enough to understand what was happening, Brad obeyed.
"Hold up your arms and stand on your toes!"
As Brad did this, he suddenly realised that he could see himself. At first he was confused but then he understood that a large mirror had been placed at the opposite wall. Brad recognised it as the hall-mirror. His mother must have placed it there. But why...? What frightened Brad still more was that he could watch his wrists being fastened to the ladder by what looked like cushioned hand-cuffs. Before he could protest he was securely tied to the wood. Mrs Jorgensen then took care of Brad's ankles, pulling his feet off the rung, tying them to the sides of the ladder so that neither his naked soles nor his toes could reach the last rung.

The boy was hanging from the ladder, naked, spread-eagled, helpless. Mrs Jorgensen saw the confusion and fear in his eyes. She stood before him, then took the boy's low-hanging cock into her hand. In shock, Brad tried to pull back but was unable to. Sweat broke out on his strong body, partly from the physical strain of only being supported by the hand-cuffs on his wrists and the rope on his ankles, partly from the real fear that started to fill his mind. Still he managed to say:

"But, Mom, what are...."

"Shut up and listen! These things", she took Brad's balls into her other hand and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath, "are the source of your troubles. You've been a good boy before you discovered what to do with those ... things. So", Mrs Jorgensen took a deep breath, "the only remedy is to do away with those ... things."

Brad babbled:
"Oh, no, please, you can't do this ... what do you mean...."
Somehow the boy couldn't say the word "Mom", it just didn't seem appropriate. But his mother's voice was stern and unforgiving:
"I can do whatever I want to. I've been patient, but I also brought you into this world, so I have the right to take you out of it as well, or at least some parts of you, especially those devilish ... organs."
She squeezed her son's cock and balls. Really squeezed them until he moaned.
"Oh yes, these ... organs have given you pleasure, I know, but they've taken your mind off the really important things ... your studies, your grades, your progress in life, in fact, your whole healthy future. That's what we'll have to cure. And right now!"
Mrs Jorgensen left the room and young Brad was left there hanging from the ladder, naked, defenseless, panting with strain and fear, seeing his helpless, spread-out, muscular body in the mirror, watching sweat spread out over his pectorals, dripping from his erect tits down onto his stretched, rippled belly, being caught in his pubic hair, running along his proud shaft, finally making muffled splashing sounds as it dropped from his glans to the carpet. He sighed, still a bit drunk, still not grasping the scheme of things.

Mrs Jorgensen returned, carrying a sharp knife in her right hand. Brad saw the knife, thinking, that's the one she cuts onions with, then, realising what he had thought, Oh My God....

Mrs Jorgensen stood before the tied, naked body of her son, holding the knife in front of his eyes.

"I hope you know that this is only for your own good. It is going to hurt, I know, but that's necessary. I could do it easily, you know, just a slash and that's it. But, for your own good, you'll have to remember this all your life. And pain is the best way to remember."
Then Mrs Jorgensen laid the knife on the floor, produced a sefety-pin she had hidden in her left hand and grabbed Brad's cock with her right hand, pulling it up. She pierced the needle through the skin just below the boy's glans and Brad wailed for the first time. His wailing turned into heavy sobs as his mother stuck the needle through his hard abdominal flesh, securing the meaty cock to the boy's belly.
"Just to get it out of the way", she said. "For now."
Mrs Jorgensen picked up the knife, looked into her son's downcast eyes and said:
"I guess you know what's going to happen to you. I'm going to castrate you and, believe me, this will turn you into a good boy."
Brad looked at his mother, standing in front of his spread-out, exposed body, taking his nuts into her hand, wielding the knife, looked into the mirror and still couldn't believe it. Believe that what she had said would actually happen. Believe that his nuts were going to drop.

Mrs Jorgensen, somewhat excited despite herself, put the knife to the base of her son's scrotum, right where it connected to the body. Then she started. She was surprised how sharp the knife was, it cut through Brad's scrotal skin like through air. She immediately stopped the movement, then cut outwards again, around the base, since she didn't want to cut the spermatic cords. At least not yet. Brad's reaction took a little time but then it was violent, as he pushed his pelvis forward and then back again. Of as little use as it was it still made cutting his sac off somewhat difficult, but somehow more fun. His freakish screams hardly mattered -- or, in a way, added to the fun.

Mrs Jorgensen held the scrotum in front of her son's tear-filled, pain-filled, but despite it all, still disbelieving large brown eyes.

"Yes, take a good look at it. This was your's. This was part of your troubles. But the real thing is still waiting for remedy."
She dropped the useless ball-sac to the floor and again left the room. Brad, with a weird, perverted kind of fascination watched his naked, sweating body in the mirror. Watched, felt his denuded balls hanging even lower than before. Watched ... oh my god ... his balls for the first time, large, oval, blood-filled, yet strangely white objects that seemed to hang lower each second, stretching the cords they hung to. Brad thought, this isn't happening, this can't be true, when his mother reentered the room, carrying a small electric cooker and a pot filled with water.

Mrs Jorgensen sensed that her son was watching her with somewhat ignorant eyes while she put a chair between his spread thighs and put the cooker onto it, then the water-filled pot. Her son's denuded balls were bathing in the water. She switched the cooker on and pulled the balls out.

"I told you it will have to hurt so you'll remember. But, don't forget, it's for your own good."
Watching her son's balls in her palm, then looking at the already boiling water, she added:
"As I remember, you always wanted your eggs four and a half minutes, isn't it?"
Brad stared down, feeling the heat of the steam already.
"Oh my god, please don't...."

"Four and a half minute it is!"

Mrs Jorgensen let her son's tender balls drop into the boiling water. It took a moment or two before the impact hit the boy's body but then he threw back his head, banged it against the rung of the ladder and screamed louder and more desperate than he had ever done before in his life. Now Mrs Jorgensen saw the flexing of her son's muscles, not the way he'd done it before to impress girls (or boys), no, not the way he'd ever done it before or probably would ever after, as his whole body tensed, the veins in his neck almost about to burst, his bicepses, stretched now, trying to push through the skin, stretching it to the point of no return, his belly muscles contracting in spasmic motions, his thigh- and calf-muscles tensed beyond endurance, his toes stretched further apart than humanly possible.

And the boy's balls were cooking in the bubbling, boiling water.

With some pride Mrs Jorgensen noticed that Brad was not fainting. He screamed and howled and wailed but he remained conscious. And, Mrs Jorgensen noticed, after a minute or so, the pain seemed to cease. At least Brad's howls became less prominent and soon he just sobbed and sniffed while his balls were still being cooked.

After exactly four and a half minutes Mrs Jorgensen pulled her son's balls out of the boiling water, putting the pot aside. She said:

"Look at them, Brad. Just right."
And Brad, through his tears, did look at them in the mirror. They were horribly bloated -- they had been large before but now they seemed obscenely large -- and blistered and burning red. They did no longer look like boy-balls at all, though, before this night his scrotum had been cut off, Brad wouldn't have known what boy-balls usually looked like.

Mrs Jorgensen took the knife and swiftly severed the spermatic cords and lifting-muscles that still connected the boiled balls to the boy's body. And as Brad watched this in the mirror, sobs started to wreck his body, as he finally realised what was happening ... what had happened. The cutting-off of his scrotum had been horrible, the boiling of his balls had brought pain beyond imagination, but still, even if his balls had already been destroyed by the incredible heat, they had still been connected to his body. They had still been his, however mangled. But now, in just split-seconds, they came loose, were disconnected by the unfeeling, cruel blade of a knife ... were gone.

Brad didn't scream as he was castrated, he just cried silently.

His mother was proud of him, dropping his balls to the floor.

But the job had to be finished.

Mrs Jorgensen looked into her son's eyes and saw that he knew what was coming. She pulled the safety-pin out, letting the large organ flap into her left palm. She put the knife to the base of the pulsating, fleshy cock, when suddenly, unexpectedly, Brad whispered:

"I wish I could have come one last time...."
What an odd thing to say, Mrs Jorgensen thought, then slapped her son's cheek.
"Stupid boy! These thoughts will leave you as soon as the operation is completed. Now you see that it's for your own good."
With sudden force she pushed the blade into her son's cock-flesh. It cut easily. And as Brad felt the cold, hot metal invading the last remains of his manhood he once again threw back his head and howled his eternal agony to unmerciful gods. He didn't faint and after a few seconds Mrs Jorgensen held her son's bleeding cock in her hand, contemplating how swiftly it had come loose. No problem at all. Why hadn't she thought of this earlier. Young, muscular, de-cocked Brad's screams echoed in her ears as she pushed an iron catheter into his open urethra -- as Dr Matthews had told her -- and then cauterized the wound with a smoldering iron.

Brad was hanging in his bonds, sweating, sobbing, exhausted, emasculated, while his mother threw his cock, balls and scrotum into the fireside. Then again she approached him with the knife, saying:

"Now for the last of your sexual organs."
Brad, half-awake, didn't understand. Hadn't she already taken all he had? Hadn't she already destroyed him? What more could there be?

He understood as his left nipple came loose. But by now, after all he'd been through, this was maybe a small shock, but not really any pain he couldn't endure. Even as his second nipple was cut off, he just sighed, accepting it. Then, as his mother burned the wounds with the heated iron, he managed an exhausted squeak or two, but that was all he could give.

Yet he was reawakened when his mother produced a rather weird looking object. She pulled his head up by his sweaty brown hair, forced him to look at the object.

"Listen, son. This is a butt-plug you'll be wearing from now on. At least for starters. Time after time we'll increase it's size. It has a kind of sandpaper-surface, which -- as Dr Matthews told me -- will not only hurt you all the time and remind you of your low state, but will, in the end desensitize your ass so that you'll never feel pleasure there again. And -- I still can't believe it -- I've been told you've had ... fag-encounters as well. So this will take care of that."
With these words she pulled Brad's ass-cheeks apart. Despite his exhaustion Brad's body still tried to refuse to let the object enter his sacred hole and his mouth mumbled:
"No, I never did...."
But all of this was fruitless as Mrs Jorgensen pushed the cruel butt-plug upwards and Brad's sphincter was torn open and the large dildo entered his virgin inner sanctum. Because, despite all the rumours, Brad had never slept with another boy nor been fucked before. And as he felt the last of his manhood being taken away Brad cried loudly, not so much because of the pain the brutally scratching sandpaper caused his rectum wall, but because of the final and radical humiliation of his being.

The butt-plug having been inserted deep and secured into her son's asshole, Mrs Jorgensen declared:

"You'll never take this plug out unless I, or some other person of authority, orders you to. I hope that is understood. Remember, Chief Gardener is a very good friend of mine. And he dislikes punks as much as I do. Do you understand?"
Completely destroyed, physically and mentally, Brad managed a weak nod.


After a month, when Brad had recovered, he was sent back to school again. In the meantime the teachers had heard of Mrs Jorgensens radical action and, on the whole, had agreed that the measure had been just. Also, the rumours had been spread among the pupils though they didn't really believe it. The first course Brad had to attend was history and as he entered class, Mrs Cornshaw, the teacher, summoned him to the podium.

"Now, I hear, Brad Jorgensen, that you've been taught a lesson. I think we all would like to see what it was."
Brad looked at her dumbfounded.
"Come on, stupid", Mrs Cornshaw said, "take your shirt and pants off."
Brad still hesitated.
He finally did as told, blushing a deep red, as he was forced to present his tit-less breast and his cock- and ball-less crotch to the class. At first there was silence. But soon giggling and sniggering started, then turned into outright laughter. And, though he held his face down in shame, Brad noticed that Jack, his best friend and partner in crime in many adventures, laughed the loudest. So Brad realised that he not only was no man any longer, had no nipples, no cock, no balls, no honour, but he also had no friends any longer. He was a eunuch, and eunuchs were just ... things....
"Don't laugh too loud, boys", Mrs Cornshaw interjected, "because if you don't behave, you might be the next. Because this cure has turned brat Brad into a good boy, hasn't it?"
She turned towards the boy, still shirtless, still pants down, still completely emasculated before the class. Brad looked at her, not understanding. Mrs Cornshaw slapped his face.
"I said, you're a good boy now, aren't you, Brad Jorgensen?"
Resignedly Brad nodded and said:
"Yes, Mrs Cornshaw, yes, madam, I'm a good boy now."
The class roared with laughter.
"And", Mrs Cornshaw added, "I've been told you'll be an even better boy in about two weeks time. Because then, boys and girls, Brad's prostate will be surgically removed, and then there will never be any more wicked thoughts in little stupid Brad's mind, will there?"
With tears in his eyes, Brad shook his head and said:
"No, Mrs Cornshaw, no, madam, there won't be."
The class applauded cheerfully.


Brad's revenge, if it can be called that, came two weeks later (on the eve when his prostate would be removed), when his former best buddy, Jack, was presented to class -- nipple-less, cock-less, ball-less and tongue-less -- he had talked back once too often.