My Poor Balls: Sunday, Light Training (Variety of Escalating Torture)
Disclaimer: These stories are a work of fiction. None of the events depicted have occurred as they are depicted. My wife and I do have a relationship that sometimes incorporates some ballbusting, but these stories are fantasy.
Chapter 29: Sunday – ‘Light’ Training (Variety of Escalating Torture)
I slept naked, the way I’m required to every night. Clothes would deny her access to the balls, and the balls never get mercy—even when I’m unconscious.
The first thing I felt was her hand closing around my sack. Not a gentle cup. A firm, possessive grip that lifted my swollen, tender testicles and gave them a brisk, businesslike shake. Normally that touch would have been only uncomfortable. Today, after the dragon tail, the metal bar, and the long, crackling cattle-prod sessions that had left my balls raw and leaking, it felt like she was trying to rip them off. A guttural groan tore out of me before I was even fully awake.
“Wakey-wakey,” she sang softly, still shaking them. “It’s after ten. Time for some very light training today, honey. After what those poor balls went through last night, I think we should take it easy.”
I blinked up at her, eyes watering from the lingering burn in my sack. I knew that sweet tone. I knew the innocent little smile. There was a trap somewhere, but I also knew my role.
“That… sounds nice,” I managed.
She gave my balls one last affectionate little jiggle that made my stomach flip, then released them. “Good. I even made a special box so you’ll know everything will be light.” She held up a small white Kleenex box she’d decorated with fluffy clouds and a smiling sun. In neat marker it read **Light Training – Pick One!** “Every hour, on the hour, you’ll reach in and draw one little task. Nothing heavy. Just enough to keep the balls from getting lazy. Sound fair?”
“Yes, dear.”
She kissed my forehead. “Naked from the waist down all day, of course. Can’t have clothes in the way if the balls need attention. Go kneel in the living room. We start at eleven.”
---
At 10:58 I was already on my knees in the living room, legs spread wide, hands behind my head, presenting my bruised, swollen testicles exactly the way she likes. They hung lower than usual, the skin shiny and tight, mottled purple and red from last night’s beating.
“Eleven o’clock,” she announced cheerfully from the couch. “Reach in and pick your light training for the hour.”
I reached into the cloud box and pulled out a folded slip.
**1 Punch**
I almost laughed with relief. One punch? After last night that was nothing.
My wife stayed seated comfortably on the couch and patted the spot right next to her. “Come stand here, honey. Right beside me.”
I rose on shaky legs and stood next to the couch, balls presented at perfect height for her seated fist. She looked up at me with a sweet smile, then drove her knuckles hard into my left testicle. The impact made a meaty *thud* and dropped me straight to my knees, gasping.
She waited patiently while I struggled back to my feet and resumed my position beside her. “See? Nice and light. Good job, honey.”
---
At noon I drew again.
**10 seconds squeezing**
She stayed seated and beckoned me over. I stood beside the couch while she reached out with both hands, took my tender orbs, and squeezed. Her fingers dug straight into the bruised meat, thumbs pressing deep into the spots the dragon tail had left raw. Ten seconds stretched into forever. I hissed through my teeth, trembling, but kept my legs open.
When she finally let go she gave my sack a gentle pat. “There we go. Just a tiny squeeze. The balls are doing great so far.”
---
One o’clock: **30 seconds squeezing**
My heart sank a little when I read it aloud. Thirty seconds? She noticed and tilted her head with mock sympathy.
“Oh honey, you’re the one picking these. I wanted today to be easy.”
I stood beside her on the couch as she crushed my balls again, much harder this time. Her thumbs ground into the most swollen parts while she counted slowly out loud. By fifteen seconds I was panting. By twenty-five my vision was blurring. When she finally released me I collapsed forward, gasping, my testicles feeling twice their normal size and throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
---
Two o’clock: **4 Kicks**
She sighed theatrically as I read it. “Four kicks? Sweetie, I asked for light training and you’re being mean to the balls again. Remember to draw the easy ones next time.”
I knelt in front of her while she stood. She delivered four solid kicks, each one flattening my already tender nuts against my pelvis. I counted each one through gritted teeth, legs shaking.
---
Three o’clock: **3 Punches**
I stood beside the couch as she remained seated. The first punch landed square on my left ball and drove me straight to my knees. I gasped, fighting the white-hot flare. I struggled back up, knees trembling, and just as I rose nearly all the way her hard knuckles collided with my soft testicles again. I went down a second time, curling instinctively. She didn’t wait for me to get up this time. She stood, grabbed my knees, forced them apart, and drove her fist into my balls one final time. The third punch was the hardest. I cried out and rolled onto my side, cradling my punished orbs while she sat back down, smiling like she’d just given me a hug.
---
Four o’clock: **1 minute holding 25 lbs up with his nuts**
She tied the 25-pound weight to my sack with the familiar strap and made me stand there holding it completely off the ground for a full sixty seconds. My legs shook violently. The deep, throbbing ache spread up into my gut. Every tiny tremor sent fresh agony through my swollen balls. She watched the whole time, slowly touching herself on the couch, clearly enjoying the way my face twisted.
---
Five o’clock: **3 stomps from her boots**
She looked genuinely disappointed when I read it. “Three stomps? Honey, I wanted this to be an easy day for the balls and you keep choosing the harder stuff. You’re being too mean to them.”
I had to tie my balls tightly with a hair band first, forcing the swollen orbs down and forward, then present them on the hard coffee table like an offering. The skin was already stretched tight from swelling; the band made every movement send fresh cramps through the meat.
She put on her heavy hiking boots and stood over me.
First stomp: She lifted her boot high and brought the heel down squarely across both balls, crushing them flat between hard rubber and unforgiving wood. The pain was explosive — a deep, flattening crush that made my vision flash white and forced a strangled scream from my throat. Fear spiked hard; I was terrified the next one would be even worse.
Second stomp: She aimed deliberately for the left ball this time. The heel landed with brutal precision, mashing the already punished orb into the table. The impact drove a sickening wave of nausea through my gut. I bucked involuntarily, tears springing to my eyes as terror flooded me — how much more could they take?
Third stomp: She ground her boot down slowly, twisting slightly so the heel dug deep into the center of my sack. The sustained pressure turned the pain into a burning, crushing agony that made my whole body shake. My balls rebounded but the pain remained by the time she finally lifted her foot.
---
Six o’clock: **8 punches**
I knelt in front of her while she stood. She delivered eight punches with growing enthusiasm. The first two were solid and made me grunt. The third and fourth landed harder on my left ball, sending sharp nausea radiating into my stomach. By the fifth I was struggling to stay upright after each impact. The sixth caught both orbs and nearly dropped me. The seventh was aimed directly at my right ball and left me gasping. The eighth — the hardest yet — flattened my swollen sack and left me trembling on my knees, fighting the urge to curl up and protect my balls.
---
Seven o’clock: **10 kicks**
I knelt while she stood over me. She delivered ten kicks with clear enjoyment. The first three were firm but I managed to count through them. The fourth and fifth caught my left ball at awkward angles and made me cry out. By the seventh my legs were shaking badly and I nearly closed them on instinct. She scolded me lightly and made me spread wider. The eighth and ninth kicks were harder, each one flattening my swollen orbs and driving the air from my lungs. The tenth was a full-power kick that left me on the floor, vomiting the small amount of dinner I had tried to eat between the waves of pain from my abused testicles.
My wife knelt down and petted me gently as I squirmed around on the floor. “Oh honey, I feel so bad for you having such naughty balls. The balls always get you into trouble like this.”
Then she immediately changed gears, her voice turning brisk. “Make sure to clean up after yourself before eight pm when we draw the next training.” She stood and walked away as I continued to writhe about in pain.
---
Eight o’clock: **2 with the cattle prod**
When I read it my voice cracked completely. “Please… not the prod. Not today. They’re so sore already.”
She gave me that soft, pitying smile she always uses right before she hurts me anyway. “Oh baby. You’re the one who keeps picking the tough ones. I wanted light training. But rules are rules.”
I stood and walked to the wall where the cattle prod hung displayed like a trophy rifle. I saw it every single time I walked through the living room — a constant reminder. It was my job to retrieve it. I took it down from its mount with trembling hands and brought it back to her.
I begged the whole time. I begged while I pressed my swollen, bruised balls against the prongs. I begged right up until the first vicious zap tore through my testicles and turned my plea into a scream. The second shock was worse. I collapsed, rolling on the floor, cradling my nuts and whimpering like a child.
---
Nine o’clock: **10 minutes holding up 45 lbs with his nuts**
When I unfolded the slip and read it aloud my voice broke completely. “Ten… minutes holding up forty-five pounds with my nuts.”
My wife put her hands on her hips and gave me a long, theatrical scolding look, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Ten minutes with forty-five pounds? Honey, this was supposed to be a light day. You are really screwing this up for the balls. I’m trying to be nice and you keep making it harder on them.”
She pointed behind the couch. “The weight is right back there. Go get it and bring it to the center of the room.”
I shuffled over on shaky legs. Sure enough, the heavy 45-pound plate was sitting there, already prepared, right next to a small box. She had it ready the whole time. The realization sent a fresh spike of nervous fear through me. She’d been expecting me to draw something brutal again.
I gripped the weight with both hands and carried it—waddling awkwardly because of how sore my balls already were—to the middle of the living room and set it down with a heavy thud.
“Now fetch the parachute and chain from the little box right next to where the weight was,” she ordered.
I retrieved the box. Inside were the familiar leather parachute harness and a thin chain with clips. When I wrapped the parachute around my sack and tightened the straps, it forced my swollen testicles down and forward into a position that would normally feel natural. Today, with how grotesquely bruised and enlarged they were, the simple adjustment sent sharp, sickening throbs through both orbs. I hissed through my teeth as I buckled it.
Back in the center of the room I crouched, clipped the small chain between the parachute ring and the heavy weight, then straightened up slightly on my haunches.
“Stand up,” she said.
I tried. Nothing happened. The weight didn’t even budge, as if it were welded to the floor. My balls screamed under the sudden tension, but the plate stayed exactly where it was.
My wife clicked her tongue. “Don’t let the balls deny you proper character building, sweetie. You’re the one who picked this, after all.”
Anger flared hot in my chest—at my own weakness, at these pathetic, troublemaking balls that kept failing me. I growled under my breath, planted my feet, and drove upward with everything I had. The chain went tight. For a moment the weight lifted… then, with a sharp metallic *snap*, the small chain broke. The plate crashed back to the floor.
My wife’s eyes widened in mock outrage. “Oh! Those fucking balls just broke my nice chain!” She shook her head, clearly fighting a grin. “Bad, bad balls. Later I’m going to have to punish them properly so they learn to respect my things.”
She pointed toward the bookshelf on the far side of the room. “There’s another chain in the blue box on the second shelf. Go get it.”
I hobbled over, retrieved the new chain, and brought it back. In my head I realized she had already placed it there—knowing the first, weaker chain would break. Was that sadistic? Or was it considerate, making sure the game could continue without real interruption? It was both at once, that beautiful contradiction that made me love her so much. She could be sweetly cruel and thoughtfully vicious in the same breath, and it made my heart ache with devotion even while my balls screamed.
I crouched again, clipped the new chain in place, and rose once more.
The weight still didn’t move. My balls stretched painfully downward, but the plate stayed stubbornly on the floor.
My wife sighed dramatically. “Any real man would have no problem with a little weight like that.”
That did it. Fresh anger surged through me—at these weak, rebellious balls that were embarrassing me in front of my perfect wife. I locked my hands behind my back, planted my feet, and pulled with every ounce of strength and fury I possessed. The chain went bar-tight. My testicles felt like they were being ripped from my body. A deep aching pain took over my groin and up into my gut. My vision tunneled to white. Every muscle in my core and legs quivered violently. Tears poured down my face as the weight finally, slowly, lifted clear off the floor.
“I… I did it,” I announced through gritted teeth, voice cracking, tears streaming freely.
My wife looked up from the couch with a playfully bored little smile, as if I’d just proudly announced I’d tied my own shoes.
“Good job,” she said in a flat, unimpressed tone. Then she twisted the knife with perfect cruelty: “You only have nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds left.”
I stood there trembling, balls screaming under the relentless downward pull, sweat pouring down my back and mixing with the tears on my face. She casually picked up her phone and started scrolling, acting like my suffering was the most mundane background noise in the world. After a minute she lifted the phone, angled it toward me, and took a picture.
“Smile, honey,” she said sweetly. “I’m only posting this because you were so proud of your little accomplishment. Everyone will love seeing how strong you are.”
I was dying inside. My balls felt like they were being slowly torn from my body. The deep ache had turned into a constant, nauseating burn that radiated up into my stomach and down my thighs. Every tiny shift of my weight sent fresh agony through the stretched cords. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stay upright. I wanted to beg her to stop, but I knew better. The balls never got mercy.
After several more minutes the pain became unbearable. My voice came out small and pathetic.
“Please… honey… it’s too much. Can you help me? Just a little?”
She sighed theatrically, as if I were asking her to do the most inconvenient favor imaginable, and stood up. She walked over and gripped the chain, giving it a tiny experimental tug.
“Grabbing that heavy chain might hurt my delicate hand a bit,” she said. “But I suppose I can help you in a different way.”
She peeled off her shirt and panties, standing completely naked in front of me. Her curvy body, heavy breasts, and the dark areolas I adored so much filled my vision. My cock twitched despite everything.
She cupped her hand, collected some of the tears and sweat from my face and chest, and used it to lubricate her palm. Then she wrapped her warm, slick fingers around my shaft and began slow, teasing strokes.
“If you keep your hands behind your back the entire time,” she said, voice silky, “I’ll keep stroking that silly dick for you.”
I immediately locked my hands behind me. The pleasure was maddening next to the white-hot agony in my balls. I stared at her beautiful breasts bouncing gently with each movement of her arm, at the soft curve of her hips, at the way her nipples had hardened. She was perfect. She was everything. And my balls were on fire, stretched to the limit, screaming for relief that would never come.
“Thank you,” I whispered between gasps, tears still rolling down my cheeks. “Thank you for helping me…”
She kept stroking, building me closer and closer, her thumb swirling over the head with slick, torturous precision. I was right on the edge, hips twitching, when the timer on her phone suddenly chimed.
“Time’s up,” she said in that same bored tone.
The moment the words left her mouth my strength gave out. I collapsed forward onto all fours, the weight crashing to the floor with a heavy thud. I stayed there gasping, chest heaving, drool and tears dripping onto the carpet while my balls throbbed in furious protest.
She was already pulling her clothes back on, casually browsing her phone again.
“I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes for the next training,” she said without looking up. “Try to draw something lighter next time, okay? For the balls’ sake.”
---
Ten o’clock: **5 with the 1 lb rubber mallet**
I was already a wreck when I drew the final slip. My hands shook so badly I could barely unfold the paper. When I read it tears welled up immediately.
“Please… not the mallet. Not five. They can’t take it. Please, honey.”
She crouched down beside me, cupped my face, and wiped a tear with her thumb. Her voice was gentle, almost maternal.
“Sweetie, I told you all day I wanted light training. You kept choosing the mean stuff. Now look at you—blubbering like this. I care about these balls too, you know. They’re our toys. You have to take better care of them.”
She was clearly fighting a smile the whole time she said it.
Still, she made me present my mangled testicles on the coffee table.
The first blow came down with a sickening *thud*. My swollen orbs flattened brutally against the wood, the rubber spreading the force so every inch of bruised meat absorbed the impact. I gasped, eyes watering, the emotional shock of being hammered again after such a brutal day hitting almost as hard as the physical pain.
The second strike landed slightly off-center, crushing the left ball more than the right. The pain was sharper, more localized — a deep, crushing ache that made my stomach heave. Fear flooded me; I was terrified the next one would be even worse.
The third blow was perfectly centered. Both balls compressed flat for a split second before rebounding, sending waves of nausea and white-hot agony radiating through my groin. Tears streamed down my face as I realized how completely broken I felt.
The fourth mallet strike came faster. My balls were already so sensitive that the impact felt like an explosion inside them. I sobbed openly, body shaking, pride shattered by how easily these “light” tasks had destroyed me.
The fifth and final blow was the hardest. The mallet drove my mangled testicles into the table with merciless force. My vision went white, my mouth opened in a silent scream, and the emotional weight of failing yet again — of letting the balls embarrass me in front of her — crashed down harder than the rubber itself. I collapsed into a sobbing, drooling mess on the floor, curled protectively around my ruined balls.
My wife knelt beside me and stroked my hair while I shook.
“Shhh. It’s okay. All done now.” She kissed the top of my head. “See what happens when you don’t listen and pick the hard ones? I wanted today to be easy for the balls, but you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
She looked down at my grotesquely swollen, deeply bruised sack and gave it the gentlest little pat.
“Poor things. All beat up again.” Her voice dropped into that playful, loving tone I knew so well. “But don’t worry. We’ll let them rest… until tomorrow.”
She leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear as she whispered:
“I love you.”
Then her hand closed around my tortured balls and squeezed, hard enough to make fresh tears spill down my cheeks.
“I love you too,” I gasped through the pain.
She smiled against my temple, clearly delighted with her day of “light” training.
And despite everything—despite the tears, the shaking, the way my balls felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder—I knew I’m the luckiest man in the world.
Chapter 1 and 2 (Kicking and electrical play) Chapter 3 (Kicking and licking) Chapter 4 and 5 (Kicking and crushing in a vice) Chapter 6 (Hammering and sex) Chapter 7 (Execution style weight play and licking) Chapter 8 (Caning in stocks) Chapter 9 (Kicking) Chapter 10 (Crushing) Chapter 11 (Kicking) Chapter 12 (Hammering) Chapter 13 (Cattle Prod) Chapter 14 (Kicking) Chapter 15 (Leashed pulling, Kicking) Chapter 16 (Kicking, Shocking) Chapter 17 (Kicking, Caning) Chapter 18 (Cock Burning) Chapter 19 (Caning) Chapter 20 (Caning, Kicking, Taser) Chapter 21 (Cock Torture, Ball Kicks) Chapter 22 (Testicle Vice) Chapter 23 (Kicking) Chapter 24 (Kicking) Chapter 25 (Punching, Cattle Prod) Chapter 26 (Needles) Chapter 27 (Ballbusting, Humiliation) Chapter 28 (Whipping, Caning, Cattle Prod) Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.