My Poor Balls: Monday – Welcome Home (Kicking)

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 30: Monday – Welcome Home (Kicking) I walked through the door and without a word I stripped everything from the waist down, and sank to my knees in the entryway. Legs spread wide, back straight, swollen testicles pushed forward like the offering they were. They were still a mess from yesterday—purple, shiny, hanging lower than usual, every inch tender and hot. Sunday’s “light training” had turned them into something that felt half again their normal size. I could already feel my pulse beating in them.

My wife appeared from the kitchen, still in her work blouse, sleeves rolled up, that soft, dangerous smile on her face. She stopped a few feet away and tilted her head.

“What day is it, honey?”

“Day thirty-nine,” I answered, voice steady even though my stomach was already tightening.

She hummed thoughtfully, eyes drifting down to my battered sack. “Mmm. After what those poor balls went through yesterday, I was thinking we could be nice and only do twenty. You could earn a quick look at my tits for that. Sound reasonable?”

I swallowed. The smart answer was yes. The right answer—the one that made her happy—was the one that hurt more.

“I’m going to take all thirty-nine kicks,” I said, “and I’m going to kiss them.”

Her eyebrows lifted in that playful, mock-surprised way she does when I overbid. “Thirty-nine? Oh, sweetie. You really are determined to make the balls suffer tonight, but if you insist” She says with a grin she can’t quite hide, then she steps closer, bare foot flexing. “All right. Present them nicely.”

The first kick landed before I was ready. It always does. Her instep smashed straight into my already bruised left testicle and the pain detonated like a flashbang—deep, nauseating, radiating up into my gut. My vision starred. I fought the instinct to curl, to close my legs, to protect what she owned.

“One,” I gasped.

Kick, my wife’s foot impacted my sensitive nuts again radiating pain outward causing me to involuntarily spasm. “Two.”
Kick, a 3rd brutal kick landed. The pain nearly overwhelmed me, but my training held, and my legs remained spread, my balls remained dangling and obscenely vulnerable. “Three.”

Kick. It briefly blasted my consciousness into space, my mind desperately coping with brutality that it was not equipped to process. I said “Four.”

By the fifth my voice was already cracking. Yesterday’s mallet strikes had left the skin so thin that every impact felt like it was landing on exposed nerve—sharp, electric, like someone was twisting a knife inside. I kept my hands locked behind my back and forced my knees wider.

“Five.”

She didn’t let the rhythm break. “How was your day, honey?” Kick. Her words were part of my training, an attempt to insure that my mind remained present, and didn’t separate from my body during the moments of overwhelming suffering.

“Six—my… my day was.. Was fine.” Kick. “Seven.” The next one caught both balls dead center and my breath whooshed out—stomach cramping, bile rising. “Eight… one of the regional directors called an emergency meeting right at four-thirty.”

Kick. “Nine.” I had to blink hard to clear the tears. “Ten.”

She gave the tenth a little extra snap, the way she does when work talk turns her on. “Oh? What about?”

I tried to keep my voice level. “Eleven… they’re talking about cutting our team’s budget again. Twelve.” The kick drove my balls up against my pelvis and I saw white—nausea rolling through me like a wave. “Thirteen… it’s not even my fault and I’m the one who’s going to have to tell everyone.”

She made a sympathetic little tsk sound, but the fourteenth kick was harder, deliberate. My legs buckled for half a second before I locked them again—thighs quivering, sweat breaking out cold.

“Fourteen,” I croaked.

“Poor thing,” she cooed, lining up the next one. “All that stress at the office…” She lined up her next kick “but at least you get to come home to this.” The kick landed with a west plop into my abused gonads.

I managed a shaky laugh through the pain—”yeah, lucky me. Fifteen.”

Kick. “Sixteen”. Kick “Seventeen”. Kick. “Eightteen”. Kick. The brutal sounds is followed by pain cresting into a brutal wave that overtakes everything I know. Everything about me. I lose a sense of time of place. I don’t feel my hands behind my back. I don’t feel my knees on the carpet. I feel pain. Pain is all. Pain defines my existence Then my training returns “Nineteen”

She stopped, hands on her hips, admiring her work. “You’ve made it to halfway—nineteen kicks down. That means you’ve earned your little reward.” She stepped in close, lifted her blouse and bra in one smooth motion. Those heavy, perfect breasts I worshipped spilled free—big dark areolas, the bumpy texture I loved so much. My mouth watered even as my balls screamed.

“Alexa, one-minute timer,” She commanded.

She wrapped both hands around my sack—thumbs pressing straight into the most swollen, tender spots the mallet had left—and squeezed. Hard. The pain was immediate and crushing, like my testicles were being slowly pulped—deep ache blooming into fire, every nerve lit up. I locked my hands behind my back, eyes locked on her breasts, but within ten seconds the agony was so bad I couldn’t even focus on them.

She leaned in, voice soft against my ear. “I love you.”

The words had barely left her mouth before she tightened her grip even more, grinding her thumbs deep. I cried out, legs shaking violently—stomach heaving, vision blurring black at the edges. The crush turned the lingering ache from yesterday into something white-hot and nauseating.

“I love you too,” I gasped, the words broken.

She kept squeezing, shifting her powerful fingers through my nut meat, targeting the most sore and vulnerable spots, all while I stared unseeing at the breasts that were my ‘reward’. Thirty seconds in I was trembling so hard I had to lean forward and grip her hips just to stay upright. The timer finally chimed. She released me and I collapsed sideways, curling around my punished sack, panting—sweat dripping, chest heaving like I’d run a marathon.

“Good boy,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “Only twenty more. And you know what? After listening to you talk about that stupid budget meeting, I think the balls should take the rest extra hard. They’re the ones that always make you weak when you need to be strong at work, aren’t they?”

I struggled back to my knees, legs spread again, offering the same swollen, throbbing orbs. “Yes… the balls are what make me weak.”

The next kick was vicious. Pain that was impossible to process. Impact leaving me nauseous and unsteady. I barely manage “Twenty.” before the next brutal impact arrives.

I counted through gritted teeth—each one landing like a hammer on raw meat, shockwaves rolling up my spine. By thirty my vision was tunneling and I could feel vomit threatening at the back of my throat—legs jelly, breath ragged.

The thirtieth kick folded me completely—I dropped to the floor, cradling my balls, rolling in agony, a strangled groan ripping out as the pain spiked fresh, blinding, I wretched, my stomach trying to spill it’s contents, but we do this before dinner so there is no mess, and I had nothing to vomit up, despite the series of spasms that tried.

My wife knelt beside me, petting my head like I was a good dog. “You’re doing so well, honey. The balls are being such a pain today, but your effort is impressive. Now get back up, so we can repeat that one, don’t make me wait”

I did—shaking, gasping. The next kick came fast. I bucked, hands flying down on instinct—then froze before I defended my tender manhood. “Penalty,” I croaked, voice wrecked.

Another kick evaporates my world, and I am writhing on the ground, body seeking any form of relief, and finding none.

She sighed theatrically. “Naughty balls. We’re going to have to repeat that one.”

The repeat kick landed square—harder, slower, grinding my left ball flat against bone. I screamed, body jerking, tears streaming—gut clenching like I’d been punched from inside.

“Penalty.” I say.

Kick.

“Thirty-two,” I struggled to say.

Her melodic voice sang. “Doing Good. Keep it up.” And then her loving foot slammed again into my tender orbs.

“Thirty-three” another solid thud, both orbs flattening, nausea surging. I stayed upright—barely—legs locked open, sweat pouring.

“Thirty-four” I collapsed again, rolling, cradling, whimpering.

As soon as I made it back to my knees, another kick floored me. “Penalty,” I managed, barely audible, and struggle again to make my balls vulnerable to further abuse.

“You’re so pretty when you offer them sweetly like that”. My wife praises me, “You look so pretty presenting them like that, honey.” Her voice was almost tender. “Now hold still while I remind these rebellious little things who’s in charge.” She unleashes a brutal kick that makes me feel like I'm drowning in a sea of agony.

“Penalty” I say.

Another kick lands, and I’m down. She patted my shoulder. “Almost there. I believe in you. Get back up. You’re trying so hard… too bad the balls put you into these uncomfortable spots. Present them again. Nicely.”

I rose and took it again—kick like a boot to the soul, vision flashing white, stomach heaving. I croaked out “penalty”, voice cracking into nothing.

By thirty-nine I was a sweaty, shaking wreck on the floor, tears mixing with the drool on my cheek—balls throbbing, swollen beyond recognition, every breath a knife.

She crouched down, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Great job tonight. I’m so proud of you.” Then, right against my ear so only I could hear: “And tomorrow? Those balls are getting punished properly—for breaking my nice chain during Sunday’s little light session. They’ll learn to respect my things.”

My stomach dropped even as fresh fear-lust spiked through me.

She stood up, smoothing her blouse. “I’ll start dinner. You log it on the board. Those balls are going to need all the rest they can get before tomorrow when I plan to give them a proper punishment”

I stayed on the floor another minute, or maybe five. Breathing through the aftershocks, trying to determine if I was still alive, it I was human or only an embodiment of suffering, then slowly I dragged myself up. I added the tally to the whiteboard—Date: Monday, Kicks: 39 + 5 penalties, Mid-reward: yes, Final: no.

Behind me I heard her humming in the kitchen, already planning exactly how much worse tomorrow was going to be.

And I felt love.

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) Chapter 29 (Variety of Escalating Torture) Author's Note: I love feedback, and would appreciate hearing your thoughts, and suggestions.