Daddy’s Balls New boyfriend joins for Soft Ball Tuesday (Incest, Discovery, Vice Crushing)

**Disclaimer**:  These stories are a work of fiction.  All of the characters depicted are at least 18 years old.  None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted.  

Previous chapters:

* [Chapter 1](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1scku4o/daddys_balls_chapter_1_soft_balls_tuesday_incest/) (Incest, Discovery, Vice Crushing)
* [Chapter 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1si1nux/daddys_balls_chapter_2_hard_balls_thursday_incest/) (Incest, Discovery, Ball Caning)
* [Chapter 3](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1sju82k/daddys_balls_chapter_3_taking_it_like_a_man/) (Incest, Discovery, Ball Kicking)
* [Chapter 4](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1sok4lb/daddys_balls_chapter_4_taking_it_like_a_boyincest/) (Incest, Discovery, Ball Kicking)

# Daddy’s Balls Chapter 5: New boyfriend joins for Soft Ball Tuesday (Incest, Discovery, Vice Crushing)[](https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1si1nux/daddys_balls_chapter_2_hard_balls_thursday_incest/)

Ethan had been dating Steph for almost four months now, and tonight was the big introduction. He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as they turned onto her street, the suburban houses sliding past under the cold winter streetlights.

“Fair warning,” Steph said, popping her gum and scrolling on her phone like it was no big deal. “My family’s kind of weird. Dad’s got this stupid bushy mustache that makes him look like a 70s porn star. Tyson’s a total dufus—he still plays video games in his underwear. And my sisters Lizzy and April are annoying as hell. They’ll probably roast you the second you walk in. Just… don’t take it personally, okay? They mean well.”

Ethan chuckled. “Babe, I’ve met families before. I can handle a mustache and some sibling teasing.”

Steph glanced at him, a little smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. You’ll be fine.” Then she added, “and mom always overcooked the green beans.”

They pulled into the driveway. Dinner was already on the table—lasagna, garlic bread, the works. Ruth greeted Ethan with a warm hug and a quick once-over that made him feel like he was being sized up for a suit. John waved from the head of the table, that ridiculous mustache twitching as he smiled. Tyson was shoveling food like he hadn’t eaten in days. Lizzy and April kept exchanging glances that screamed *fresh meat*.

Halfway through dinner Ruth cleared her throat. “So, Ethan, we have a little family tradition every Tuesday night. Nothing too wild. You’d be more than welcome to join in, but you absolutely don’t have to participate if you’re not comfortable.”

Ethan blinked. “I love family traditions. Is it a game like charades?”

April snorted into her water. “Something like that.”

Tyson rolled his eyes. “Sometimes Tyson’s girlfriend comes over and plays,” Lizzy said sweetly, “but she always ends up playing with Dad more than Ty-Ty.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Tyson yelped, face going red.

April leaned in. “Nobody likes playing with Tyson anyway. He whines so much.”

“I do not whine!”

Ethan laughed politely, still thinking this was some goofy family game night. “I’d love to play,” he said, spearing another bite of lasagna. “Count me in.”

Ruth’s smile softened, almost relieved. “Wonderful. John and I will go set up. Kids, keep our guest entertained.”

John and Ruth disappeared into the living room. The rest of them stayed at the dining table, chatting about school, sports, the weather—normal stuff. Until a raw, guttural scream tore through the house from the next room. It sounded like someone was being murdered.

Ethan shot halfway out of his chair. “What the hell was that? Is your dad okay?”

Lizzy didn’t even look up from her phone. “Game’s set up. Come on.”

They led him through the doorway.

The scene hit Ethan like a freight train.

John—shirtless, pantless, inexplicably still wearing those ridiculous knee-length socks—was lying spread-eagled across the oversized coffee table. His wrists and ankles were tied underneath with soft cloth. In the center of his crotch sat a heavy clear plastic vice, two thick plates screwed together with four big wing nuts. Between the plates was the most grotesque, flattened mass of human flesh Ethan had ever seen.

John’s testicles had been crushed into a single obscene pink-and-white pancake, easily wider than a grapefruit and no more than half an inch thick. The edges were flushed a deep, angry pink where the skin was still somewhat normal, but the center had gone ghostly white, stretched so thin it looked almost translucent. Every vein stood out in sharp, dark relief like a roadmap under plastic wrap. The two orbs were still faintly distinguishable as separate masses, squashed side-by-side into a grotesque, bulging platter that spilled out several inches beyond the edges of the plates. The skin shimmered slightly under the living room lights, taut and shiny, with tiny creases where the pressure forced the meat to fold against itself. John’s flaccid penis lay draped limply across the top of the vice like it had surrendered, the head a dull red against the nightmare landscape below.

The man’s face was locked in a silent, teeth-baring grimace, sweat pouring down his temples. His entire slim body shook uncontrollably in tiny, involuntary spasms. Every few seconds a low, guttural groan escaped despite his obvious effort to stay quiet, and the plates gave the faintest creak as his trapped balls tried — and failed — to expand even a millimeter.

Ruth stood beside the table holding a small timer. She smiled at Ethan like she was offering him a slice of pie. “Ethan, honey, you’re the newest, so you get the first turn.”

Ethan’s brain short-circuited. He stared. He pointed. “What the fuck is happening here? This is abuse.”

April tilted her head, genuinely confused. “I know his mustache is uncool, but that’s a little harsh.”

“He’s our dad,” Lizzy added, chastising Ethan for mocking a member of the family.

Steph stepped closer, voice low and encouraging. “It’s okay, babe. Just tighten the wing nuts a little. It’s tradition.”

Ethan’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. *What the actual fuck is happening right now?* His mind raced, cataloging every impossible detail: the way the plates dug mercilessly into the soft meat, the way John’s flattened nuts bulged obscenely out the sides like overfilled dough, the way the skin looked ready to split yet somehow held. This couldn’t be real. Couldn’t.

Ruth encouraged him. “Just a couple turns, sweetheart. He can take it.”

Peer pressure and sheer bewilderment won. Ethan stepped forward on wooden legs, and gave each wing nut the world’s most pathetic quarter-turn. Barely anything. He sat down fast on the couch, heart hammering.

Steph leaned over and whispered in Ethan’s ear, “You’re embarrassing me. Try harder next round if you want them to like you.”

The rest of the family went next, casual as could be. Lizzy gave the screws two full, confident turns. John’s body jerked violently, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth as the plates bit deeper and the white center of his balls spread even wider. April did the same, humming cheerfully under her breath while the trapped testicles visibly compressed further with a faint, wet-sounding creak. Ruth went last, tightening with practiced authority until the plates were almost touching, the gap maybe half an inch at most. The flattened mass now looked like a single hideous, vein-laced wafer. John’s scream finally broke free—raw, wordless agony that echoed off the walls.

Ethan’s internal monologue was screaming. *They’re crushing his balls. On purpose. In the living room. While I’m sitting here like it’s fucking Scrabble night.* He watched every second, mesmerized and horrified, trying to find the wires, the fake blood, the camera crew. There had to be a trick. This was hazing. It had to be hazing. Elaborate, sick, Oscar-worthy hazing for the new boyfriend. Special effects. John was a goddamn actor to rival Daniel Day-Lewis.

When his second turn came, Ethan stood up with new resolve. *Fine. You want to haze me? I can play along.* He grabbed the first wing nut, looked John dead in the eye, and cranked every screw hard—three full turns on each, until the metal guard clacked loudly against the plates. The already flattened testicles bulged even wider, the skin now ghostly white across almost the entire surface, stretched so thin that the individual lobes of each nut were clearly outlined like grotesque balloons pressed under glass. John’s whole body convulsed violently, his hips bucking uselessly against the ropes.

The room exploded in cheers.

“Wow!” Ruth clapped. “We have a winner! That’s impressive, Ethan!”

“Beginner’s luck,” April whined.

Steph beamed at him like he’d just won a trophy. Ruth set the little kitchen timer for thirty minutes and placed it on the mantle next to a whole rack of identical metal spacers.

They went back to normal life. Steph grabbed Ethan’s hand and pulled him back to the loveseat directly across from the coffee table. John lay there, still tied, his balls still brutally crushed, still shaking every few seconds as fresh waves of pain rolled through him, and goddamn it, he was still wearing those ridiculous knee-length socks. His balls were a cartoonish, obscene platter of meat. Ethan could see every vein, every tiny shift when John breathed, the way the edges of the pancake tried to plump back up only to be ruthlessly held flat.

After a minute Ethan leaned over to Steph and whispered, “Okay, I get it. That was incredible hazing. Your parents are geniuses with the special effects. Your dad’s a hell of an actor. The way he screamed? Sold it completely. Fake balls in a prop vice. I’m impressed.”

Steph blinked at him, then laughed softly. She reached over, lifted the entire vice off the table—John’s bound body arched and thrashed wildly—and turned it slowly so Ethan could see from every angle. The balls were *real*. Crushed flat, spreading out impossibly wide, the skin shiny and taut like over-stretched latex. She tilted it so he could see the screws, the guard, the way the testicles were actually trapped between the plates, the faint pulse of blood still trying to move through the compressed flesh.

“See?” she said gently. “Not fake. Daddy’s balls get soft on Tuesdays. It’s like magic.”

April looked up from scrolling her phone on the other couch. “Yeah, they go back to normal by Thursday. Magic balls. That’s why Mom married him.”

Ethan stared. His brain looped the same thought over and over: *This is real. They’re actually crushing his nuts right now and everyone’s acting like it’s Tuesday night lasagna.* He laughed nervously. “Come on. You guys are still hazing me. It’s fine. I can take it.”

Steph shook her head, smiling. “We do haze new boyfriends. But when it’s your turn to get hazed, it’ll be your balls in the vice.” She stood up and tugged his hand. “Come on. Let’s go make out in my room before the timer goes off.”

Ethan sat there another five seconds, mind reeling, nothing making sense. The crushed balls. The casual family chatter. The way John was just… enduring it. Finally he thought, *Screw it. I might be dreaming. Or drugged. Or dead. Might as well enjoy the dream.*

He let Steph pull him upstairs.



**Author's Note:** This is a new concept for me. I had a magical journey of discovery into BDSM, and I wanted to tell a story about other people experiencing that journey in a slightly more interesting way. I workshopped many, many ideas, and then ended up on TV Tropes one day on the entry for "**But for Me, It Was Tuesday"** I hope you enjoy the story. If you do, leave me your thoughts.