just a Jar on the toolshed shelf

extensively revised and augmented by John Randall

Brock was heading off towards the tool shed a few dozen yards behind the house, farther up the mountain -- even more hidden than the house itself. It's where he went to jack off. He was afraid to do it in the house because you didn't allow locks on the doors because

"You're a worthless little Fuck and you start keeping secrets from me and I'll find you a real secret ditch to sleep in all day and all night."
You watched him go up the narrow double Jeep track, looking back to see if you were following him, and then he slipped inside the tool shed. He thought he was stealing the key, but you had made an extra on purpose and left it in the tool shed lock one day. Because that's exactly where you wanted him.

He'd been going up there for the last four days. Just once a day at first, and he didn't stay there long he was so scared. But this was the third time he'd been up there today.

You gave him five minutes. Then you went up to the tool shed quietly. So quietly he didn't hear you. Then you took out the knot in the knot-hole in one of the upright planks, and looked inside.

Brock was lying on a horse blanket spread on the rough-boarded floor, jacking-off buck stark naked -- his pants bunched around his ankles, tangled with his boots. This was his third jack-off session since dawn. Still he wasn't going to take long to get there.

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He has a fat fleshy dick. It always got hard when he put his clothes on ... and it got harder when he took them off. It got hard when the shower water was hot, and it got even harder when it was cold. It was cut and thick, and every fifth stroke he'd grab it with both hands and pull on it hard, and you could hear him say in a low voice,
"Daddy ... daddy, please don't hurt me like that."
He has big fat balls too, and they rolled around loose in the low-hanging smooth sack. He pulled on that too. He jacked off so much he'd stretched that thick velvety gunny sack till his fat and swollen and mush-soft balls would work their way out of any pair of underwear you made him wear, no matter how tight it was or how deeply it cut into his thighs.
"Daddy," he moaned, twisting on the coarse blanket, "I can't take it. Don't do it any more, please."
The Fuck had a lot to learn -- and you intended to teach him -- to expand his field of imagination. You'd watched him before so you knew when he was getting close to shooting that full load of nineteen-year-old slime onto his smooth belly. He jerked on his dick, and twisted his nuts all the way around in that long loose sack of flesh till the stretching skin started to turn red.

But you pulled your cock out when you started thinking of the ways you knew to turn those fucking nuts purple. So you watched him dicking off. He begged louder and louder, having no idea you were listening. You were thinking how you could make the Fuck beg for real.

Here's what you were thinking while you were watching Brock jack off and he was moaning, pretending he was talking to you, and begging you to stop pulling on his dick and slapping his balls. You were thinking, Maybe I won't interrupt him. Maybe I'll let him spew it out like a hose trying to put out a fire burning on his hard smooth belly.

His fucking nuts churn up and down the whole fucking day long, so you watch him jacking off in every corner, just trying to hide the hard-on you laugh at and punish him for. You let him spew while he's lying on the blanket on the wooden floor of the tool shed. Then go in and slam the sole of your boot on his neck.

You wipe the slime up in your palm and then smear it through his thick sun-bleached hair. It's long but you've been telling Brock he's not worth eight dollars to get it cut -- you'd rather spend it buying a front seat hand-job from a Spic Whore in a downtown parking lot than spend it on him.

So you'd drag his bare-pussy butt out into the woods, shove him up against a tree, and dry-fuck his boy-cunt till it hurt so bad he stopped begging you to stop. Then you'd drop-kick the little Fuck into a slime ditch and say,

"You don't like the way I treat you, Fuck, then go home to the two pussies you call Mommie and Daddie."
You knew what he'd say. He'd say,
"Sir, I love you. Please take me back."

"Not tonight, you foul Fuck. I've got a friend coming over and tonight we're gonna order in. My friend and I have got a crave on for some ripe pussy."

"Where will I sleep?" he'd asked you, and you'd just laugh.

"Doesn't matter to me as long as I can't smell your cunt."

You'd walk away then. You'd hear him crying, on his fucking knees in the woods, begging
"Please, Sir, don't leave me. Please let me come back. Please let me come back, Sir. Please -- I might starve. Please, Sir -- I might die. I might freeze, Sir -- I don't have any clothes!"
So you'd turn around, and go back to him. You'd pretend you were going to forgive him. You'd smile, hold out your arms.
"What did you say?"

"Sir, I said I didn't have any clothes."

And when he'd get up from the ground, you'd smile and say,
"Want me to get rid of those little fag nuts for you, too?"
Then you'd kick him in the nuts, so hard it was obvious you didn't give a fuck if you really smashed them or not.

He'd fall down on the ground, and roll around in pain. You'd kick him under the chin, slamming his jaws together.

"And those teeth too?"
But that was in your mind. Save that for another time. Today was something else. You closed the knot hole and went quietly round to the door.
"Daddy, daddy, if you hurt me any harder I'm gonna shoot -- I'm gonna shoot my dick!"
You kicked open the door. He was scared to death. He grabbed to pull his pants up but you just yelled at him,
"Don't move!"
and he jerked his hand back, lying there, pushing himself up on his elbows, lying there buck naked, his cock still hard -- he hadn't come yet. His dick throbbed and wagged like a puppy-dog's tail.

You leaned down, grabbed him by the fuck-handle and jerked his butt up off the blanket and wrenched him over with a flip, grabbing his wrists together and cuffing them quick. Then you flipped him onto his back again.

"Didn't I tell you not to play in my tool shed?" you demanded.

"Yes sir," he stammered.
You slapped him hard.
"Do you know why I told you not to play in my tool shed?" you asked, almost sincerely.

"No sir," he said, fearful of what you would tell him.

You slapped him even harder. Now he was crying.
"Daddy, you're hurting me."

"I told you not to play in my tool shed because it could be dangerous. You could get hurt up here. For instance, this place is full of wasps."

You reached up on a shelf and took down an old mason jar. You unscrewed the rusty top and held it aside. Then you pull out a drawer and pull out a snap-on thick, black rubber snap-on top.

You then went over into the corner of the shed, put the mouth of the jar around a small wasp nest and flipped it loose, into the jar. You then snapped the black rubber cap on it and pushed it down good and tight before the wasps could react.

Then you brought it over and showed it to Brock. The wasps were out of their disturbed home, fluttering their wings angrily, twisting their angry looking heads, flexing their abdomens, looking for something to sting.

"You could get stung," you said.
Brock was squirming on the blanket. His legs were still caught in his trousers bunched up around his boots. His dick was still hard. You sniggered, showing him the jar, asking him,
"What you think they'd do if they could get a hold of your balls, Fuck!"
You chortled as he whimpered and looked away. You grabbed his head and twisted it back and ordered him to look at the wasps. He did. You could feel his heart throbbing in his temple. He was afraid -- more than normal. That made your cock throb even harder in your pants.

You put the jar down between his legs, and stroke his balls with the glass. He shudders but his cock jilts -- showing he's more excited by the idea than you think is prudent.

You decide to give him a lesson he won't forget. You reach into your pocket and take out that knife you're never without. You pull it open then make a long slit in the thick rubber cap, then another crossing it.

Then you say rather than ask,

"You want to please Daddy, don't you, Fuck!"
He nodded hesitantly.
"You want to make up for disobeying him, don't you, Fuck!"

"Yes, Sir," he stammered.

"Ask your Daddy to punish you, Fuck."

"Please punish me, Sir."

You grin then get down on your knees and grab his floppy-loose balls -- stretched by all that jacking off -- all that bouncing, all that tugging.

You hold the balls on the top of the black rubber cap you just slit, then you slowly push one ball in. It takes some effort. You have to shove -- the rubber is stiff and his fat ball doesn't want to go through it. But you finally manage to shove one through.

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Immediately the wasps are on his ball, stinging it and he is screaming. But that doesn't stop you. You push the other ball in and the wasps now have to fat intruders to attack.

He tries to jerk his balls out, flipping his hips and you slap his face. Then he just lies there screaming. You backhanded him across the mouth and laugh at him,

"Scream all you want, Fucker. But the more you move, the more they'll sting you."
He tries to be still and pants hard as the wasps start calming down, not stinging him any more. But his balls are already some swollen and much red and blue.

You tap the jar and the wasps flutter their wings and crawl all over his super sensitive swollen balls -- each step like needles poking his balls. But you haven't aggravated them enough to make them sting again and he breathes hard, trying his best not to move or react.

You laughed.

"See, Daddy knows how dangerous it can be up here."
Despite trying not to move at all, Brock was trembling. Every muscle in his body was tensed. You studied the wasps crawling over his balls inside the jar.
"Oh, good. Your nuts are starting to get swollen. In a minute I'm not even going to have to hold the fucking jar in place. They'll be so fat they won't pull back out even if you jack off."
Immediately he understood what was going through your evil mind.
"Daddy please don't make me do that. Daddy, I can't...."

"You can if I say you can, Fuck. And you will."

It was a spur of the moment thing. You hadn't planned on making him jack off with the wasps stinging his balls, but the idea was hot -- really hot. And now you were going to make him do it.
"You want to make up for being bad, don't you, Fuck."

"Yes, Sir. Yes, Daddy."

"Daddy knows best. You have to learn not to jack off. That cock belongs to your Daddy. Or to whom ever he gives or sells it to. It's not yours."

"I know that, Daddy."

"You don't know it! You know it in your head. But your body has to learn it. And Daddy is going to help your body learn it."

You pull him to a more sitting-up position with his thighs spread so the bottom of the jar set on the blanket. You twist him so you can unfasten the handcuffs. Then you take his hand and help him to stand. He moves very slow, careful not to aggravate the wasps in that jar hanging onto his swollen balls like a baby.
"Now jack off!" you order.
He obediently wraps his fingers around his throbbing hard cock. He's breathing hard -- pain breathing -- but soon it's becoming sex-gasping too.
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You stand there, laughing to yourself as his body slowly turns the pain into pleasure -- the burning, stinging ache in his balls to excitement. You knew this would happen. You've trained lots of boys to be pain-seeking perverts and this boy is well on his way.

As his nineteen year old over-sexed libido takes over he jacks harder and faster, starting to bounce the jar on his thighs, aggravating the wasps.

He whimpers as they start stinging his balls again, but just jerks harder and hard, flopping the jar side to side, making all the wasps wild mad. They sting his balls repeatedly, as hard and fast as they can.

His balls are swelling like water balloons now. The skin is stretched so thin fine blue veins spider the black and purple shiny surface -- normally they would have been dark on light skin, but now they were lighter than the almost black silky smooth skin.

"You're just a lucky Fuck I got a big enough nest in there, because if enough of 'em sting you, you're balls'll get so big they fill the jar and the wasps'll suffocate."
As he jerked even harder, your prediction was coming true -- the wasps were being squeezed then crushed against the glass. Those that weren't crushed by the balls were soon crushed by the nest being crushed by the balls.

Brock was gasping hard as he shot his biggest cum-load ever -- into his face. You laugh, knowing that any second all that pleasure-pain would soon become just plain pain-pain -- like a fist ramming into his balls.

Even before the last half-spurt oozed from his piss-slit the pain hit and Brock screamed, falling to his knees then back on his butt, his knees wide spread, his hands trying to grab for the jar but unable to touch it, his nuts were so sensitive.

You picked up a hammer and snigger,

"Let me help you. Want me to smash the glass? I'll have to hit it hard though. And I wouldn't want to smash your nuts. They're probably pretty tender right now."
You snort a laugh as he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard, trying to keep his breathing from wiggling the jar.
"And the broken glass too.... Well it's your choice, Brock. Leave it on for a while, till your balls start to go down and the jar falls off on its own.

"Either that or let me try to take care your fucking nuts with this hammer?"

He whimpered,
"Daddy, please just help me...!"
You tapped the bottom of the jar with the hammer. It jarred his tender nuts so he screamed.
"Your choice, I said, Fuck!"
He chose to wait, to let the jar fall off as his nut-swelling went down. Even so, you kept tapping the hammer handle against the bottom of the jar. Every time you did, the vibrations shot through Brock's tender swollen nuts -- as if the wasps were stinging him again and all at once.
"Please Daddy, please stop!"

"Oh, I will -- just as soon as I'm sure your body has learned it's lesson."

"It has, Daddy, it has!" he panted, tears sniffling in his nose.

One final wasp crawled out of the nest, slow and woozy from being crushed half-to-death. You watched it crawl over the bodies of the dead wasps whose venom had turned Brock's nuts big as pears in the bottle.
"Hey, there's one left," you chortle. "Here he comes, here he comes. Wait for it!"

"Daddy, don't let him sting me!"

"Wait for it. Feel him on your balls?"

"Yes!" he hissed in a watery, whimpery voice.

"He's just looking for a place that hasn't been stung yet. Can you feel which nut he's crawling on?"

"On the left one!"

"If you can feel that, you must be pretty tender. He's going over to the right one now. It's not as big. Hey, I see his stinger!" you taunted. "Like a long, mean dick that shoots poison instead of come."

"Daddy no!"

"Brace for the last one, you Fuck!"

Brock stiffened. The last wasp's stinger plunged straight into the punk's right nut. He shrieked, and started to roll away but you grabbed his leg and held him down.
"Brock, didn't you hear me? That was the last wasp."

Your voice was calm.

"It's over?"

You didn't answer. He seemed greatly relieved -- like a boy after the whuppin' his dad has given him -- relieved it's all over,
"Thank you, Daddy. I learned my lesson. Thank you for punishing me."
You lifted him tenderly to his feet. The jar was still stuck to his balls -- even if you had snapped the top off, they were too big to slip through the slightly narrower mouth. He gasped as the jar bounced on his thighs.

Suddenly you snapped the cuffs back on his left wrist and snap the other cuff through a hook-eye nearly eight feet up on a support post. Brock was now stretched and chained to the post, with his right hand free.

"Aren't you going to let me go?"
You backhanded him casually across the mouth. He bowed his head. He knew the routine.
"Thank you, Daddy, for letting me have the use of my right hand. Is there something I can do for you with it?"
You nodded approval.
"I want you to do two things, Brock. Can you guess what they are?"

"Would you like me to jack-off for you again, Sir?"

"That's the first thing. When you've done that I'll tell you the second thing."

Brock's dick was hard again -- despite all the fear he'd experienced with the wasps and the pain of their venom injected into his nuts, bit by bit -- despite having come four times already -- once while being stung.

It was hard partly because Brock was always hard when you punished him, and partly it was the venom seeping up from his nuts.

He gasped back a scream as he grabbed his cock and started stroking it again, the jar bouncing, punching him in the balls and the belly button and his nipples and his throat and his eyes and his ears all at the same time -- you know because you've done it before -- you've trained enough boys to know what they feel.

Then as he stroked, the switch was thrown again and the pain was the most intense pleasure he could possibly ever experience. He pumped harder and harder, not knowing he should only stroke slowly, trying to keep from unloading his balls again -- as long as he can hold back his cum, the pain will be intense pleasure. You encourage him,

"That's it -- do it fast and hard and it'll be over sooner," you said.
He jerked hard and fast. He was panting hard, but it took a long time for him to spurt this time. A long time for him to enjoy the highest high he could imagine.

But he did spurt. And the pain hit again. He gasped and his knees crumpled and he hung from his right wrist half limp, his head lolling as he looked up to you.

You grabbed the jar with both hands and jerked, popping the lid off as the balls tried to pull out. They wouldn't till you got down on your knees and grabbed the jar with your arm pit then leaned all your weight on it.

It popped off with a splorp and you laughed as he screamed and flopped on the chain, gasping and screaming his face red as his balls were black.

You took out your pocket knife again and carefully cut the rubber lid off. The balls swelled even more, smoothing out the pinched ruffle around the neck. His balls looked like the early stages of elephantiasis -- at least his cock wasn't being stretched out of existence yet.

Still on your knees, you leaned forward and licked the swollen skin. You enjoyed the firey heat radiating from his balls and the shiver that rippled through Broch's body as your tongue slid over the silky-smooth skin.

Then you stood up and grabbed him around the waist and lifted him to standing instead of hanging. His knees strengthened and you reached up and unlocked the cuff, grabbing him around the waist again, knowing his knees would probably buckle out from under him if you didn't.

But a minute or so passed and you let go and he managed to stand without your help and you ordered him to jack off again. He half smirked -- the kind of forced smirk he always did when he was sad or didn't want to do what you told him to, but he wanted you to think he was enjoying it.

But instead of grabbing his cock, he protested,

"Daddy, Daddy, please don't make me jack off. It hurts worse now than when the wasps were stinging me."
He was playing you. You knew he couldn't wait to jack off again -- to experience that unbelievable high. You played along,
"I thought I was doing it because I thought you wouldn't be in so much pain if we drained your nuts a little."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"You're welcome. You don't have to jack off but if my little boy wants to suffer from blue balls, I won't make him jack."

"No, Daddy. No, you want me to jack, I'll jack."

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You grinned and he grabbed his cock again and started jacking hard. This time you grab his hand and hold it still then slide it up and down slowly. When you let his hand go, he's gotten the hint and strokes slowly, breathing hard. The pair of clenched fists in his ball-sack have shrunk enough to grind against each other now.

It takes him a long time and he almost comes. You grab his hand to stop him again.

"Don't come."
That's all you say. Suddenly he understands -- the rush is only good while he's hard and cocked -- soon as he shoots, it's over. He grins and laughs and thanks you.

You hold Brock's nuts in your hand. They are still big as fists and incredibly tenderized. You pat them lightly, bouncing them -- the swelling is going down, but the skin is still stretched.

"And not a drop of blood," you said. "I've practiced this little trick."
Brock was suddenly still.
"You've had other boys who called you Daddy?"
You didn't answer.
"That means you had a lot of them," Brock concluded despairingly. "How many, Daddy? Three? More than...."

"I've had four boys who turned into men. The others don't count."

"What happened to the others, Daddy?" Brock asked, in apparent genuine fear.

"Save this for later," you said,

and gave him a light slap on his balls. Brock trembled. You kneel down and start pulling his pants up his legs. He reaches down and grabs them and pulls them up, gasping as he pulls the pants high enough to encroach on his swollen balls.

He manages to snap the waist band closed and tuck his cock in, but his balls hang out like some kind of cancerous growth. You finger for the zippen and gently stuff the balls in and zip him up as he grabs hold of your shoulders to keep from collapsing.

While on the floor, you reach over and grab the blanket,

"In case you ever have to ride in the trunk of my car," you explained, "I wouldn't want my little boy to catch cold."