First session at the treatment center

Your first time at the center. All of the newness. All of the paperwork. All of the nurses smiling too broadly, too...hungrily.

How long has it taken before you finally worked up the courage to show up? You've known you've wanted it for years. How many appointments have you made and canceled? How many have been no-call no-shows?

If you have any lingering doubts, it's thoughts of that kind of bad behavior that remind you that you don't just want this - you need it.

When they take you back to the room and you see the punishment bench for the first time, it makes your stomach flip. You've seen the pictures online, but seeing it in person is completely different. It's so solid, so imposing, so imminent.

At the center, each room is equipped with an identical rectangular bench fitted with a long vertical board at one end that runs all the way to the floor. Near-level with the seat is a single fist-size hole. Your groin tenses when your eyes rest on that portal, but it's too late to turn back now.

Clothes off. Have a seat. Are you embarrassed to undress in front of her? She's strikingly beautiful and eerily commanding. It doesn't matter what you feel - she's waiting. Pants off, underwear too, all of your clothes left in a pile by the door.

When you straddle the bench, she expertly grasps your balls and flaccid penis and inserts them through the hole. Or are you the type that's already getting hard at the thought of your treatment? No matter - a few flicks on your cockhead will make you soft enough to squeeze through.

Scooch forward, she tells you. She pulls you by the balls, not too hard, but hard enough to know she means business. You push your body flush against the vertical board so it presses into your chest and belly. She tugs again, harder this time, to make you wince and tilt your pelvis into the hole.

Now for the cuffs at the top of the board - wouldn't want those grubby hands getting in the way of the treatment. Tied to the chair, genitals prostrated through a tiny viewing window - it makes your heart pound harder. Is it fear or excitement? Or both?

She handles your cock like a grubby worm. For her purposes, that's all it is - a worm getting in her way. She straps it up to the board with a few stretchy straps so it's pointed ludicrously upward. But rock-hard or completely flaccid, it's held up and out of the way. There's no need for it here.

When she grabs your balls again, she's not so gentle. Icicles of pain race through your groin as she pulls harder and harder to make them stretch. You press your hips into the board to try to find relief, but she's merciless in twisting and turning until she has them where she wants them. Only when she's finally pulled yoir sack out to a thin tendril above your nuts, just a layer of skin that looks like it might snap, that she ties the rope right there at the base of your scrotum. The dull ache when she finally releases your balls is almost a relief.

But not for long. The rope pulls tight somewhere beneath your feet and your sack is tugged again - tighter and tighter until you press forward on your tiptoes, body flush with the bench to try to find some relief. The nurse stands up but the pressure continues, and you realize she's tied the end of the rope so you're immobilized by the pain and pressure in your nuts. That familiar ache begins, and the treatment hasn't even started yet.

Do you start to panic then? Do you think about tapping out? I doubt you will, even if you consider it. You need to know if you can take it, and there's only one way to find out.

The nurse moves the machine over, an innocuous thing with a long arm and a rubber paddle at one end, and sidles it into its fittings on the floor in front of you. If your heart wasn't already pounding in trepidation, it is now.

"60/60 with a two minute interval, level three-five. Standard starter package." She reads the instructions from the clipboard as casually as a waitress reading an order. You shiver and hesitate, but she's waiting for your final consent. You nod and she smirks.

Three taps on the machine and it whirs to life. The metal arm swings around and the first blow lands so hard and directly on your taut nuts that it takes your breath away. Your ballsack trembles in its bindings from the impact. You try to recover, but the next blow lands so hard that you can only squeak at the resounding pain. Then another blow so fast on top of the last that it makes your eyes water. You watch your balls start to redden already and somewhere, deep in your subconscious, a quiet voice tells you they'll be bruised later. Then another and another until the sensation of the individual hits melts into the swelling agony of repetition.

You focus on keeping your thighs tense to weather the blows and keep from jerking your hips. They try to buck involuntarily, try to squirm away, but that only pulls your balls tighter. You don't recognize the sounds coming out of yourself as you exert all of your effort to withstand the blows - they're the sounds of a wild animal in pain.

Finally the machine whirs to a stop, slowing bit-by-bit so a few interspersed strikes hit before it finally stops. Your chest is heaving as the nurse walks over to check on you. Your balls pulsate with pain, echoing the rhythm of the strikes.

So that was a three-five: three strokes per second at level 5 intensity. And 60/60 with two minute interval - two sixty second sessions with a two minute break in between.

"You doing alright?" the nurse asks, but before you can answer, she palms your nuts and squeezes them so hard her arm shakes from the effort. The pain slices through you so abruptly that you can't control a wild scream. You can't tear your eyes away from your own balls, purpling from the pressure.

She laughs when she finally releases them and gives them a friendly pat that makes you jump. "You seem to be fine. No loss of sensation. Don't worry, dear, it's all part of the procedure." Her wolfish grin makes you wonder if that's true or if she just enjoys making you suffer.

"Alright, that's two minutes." Your stomach sinks. It can't be time again already! You didn't even get to recover.

But a click of a button and the paddle once again whacks you right in the balls. Maybe you thought the second round would be easier. You were more prepared, after all. You knew what to do, knew how to brace yourself. It couldn't be nearly as bad as the first round.

You're wrong. By now your balls are already tenderized - sore, bruised, ripe and ready to pop. The strikes land with more intensity than you could have dreamed, and your hips buck hard and out of your control. The rope on your balls vibrates as you wiggle and try to get away. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the nurse smiling. Your taut ballskin stings, but even more, your inner globes radiate with pain. Each hit makes them vibrate anew, and each time you think they couldn't ache any more than they already do, a fresh impact hurtles into them and makes you shriek from another wave of agony.

It takes a few seconds for you to notice when the machine stops because the pain pulses so intensely. When finally it fades to a dull roar, you slump over your hands on the board and wait to be released. The nurse is gentler on you now, but even her soft hands on the rope spawn fresh tingles of pain. You dare to open your eyes and see the bruises already starting to form on your scrotum.

You dress and walk gingerly back to the lobby in a daze. Even the pressure of your underwear makes your sack ache with each step. The nurse guides you so you find yourself in front of a perky receptionist tapping away at her computer. She smiles when she looks at you, that same hungry, knowing smile.

"The nurse says you tolerated the treatment well! For best results, we recommend twice-weekly visits. Shall I add you to our calendar?"

You blink at her, but there's no denying it - even with your balls feeling like used punching bags, your cock is swelling in the afterglow. Sheepishly, you nod.