Summrfate Collectors

ADDITIONAL TAGS: Ballbusting Grabs And Squeezes, Ballbusting Threats, Surprise Ball Punch, Ball Stomping, Small Goblin And Faerie Girl, Debt Collectors, Rupture Talk, Implied Ruptures, mafia woman

— - —

“Hold him still, partner. I’m about to break his balls.”

Out of all the kingdoms throughout Bustia’s lands, Capital Malorria is the most mixed cultured and largest kingdom of them all. It invites everyone from the outside with “open arms” and promises great opportunities.

Clans of Humans, sorcerers, goblins, lizard folk, elves, and all sorts of mixtures of all beast-folk like the Fawnixes, are all supported by like minded individuals and own their own companies and trading guilds. Malorria is home for all.

There’s just one problem…

With around 20 million different people living their different lives, there’s bound to be some who fall under their means. Lost souls forgotten by all the systems meant to remember everyone. Those who aren’t able to swim above the sea of power end up doing everything they can to stay afloat.

By taking any low sinking job, people will do anything just to survive…even if they have to get cruel and messy.

Like this one…

“W-What?! Wait, please n-no?! You…you don’t have to!”

This is Dwight Alban. A smooth skinned elven man who’s a respectable and honest restaurant owner. He’s got a recognizable face since he’s a part of the cheerful Alban Spice family.

Unfortunately he’s got one bad habit that’s brought him to this moment. The tall, good looking, pizza maker can’t pay back old debts…

After just hearing two horrifying words be used together, (break, and balls) any man would fear for his family jewels. It’s the expected reaction. Most women in Bustia can recognize the exact expression a man makes when he realizes his poor testes are on the line.

“Chamuro, don’t do t-this! G-Give me another day! Please, I’ll do a-anything! Just make this chick let gooOoo—EEEKKK!”

The unsuspecting elf’s pretty eyes go wide with panic as a girly scream cracks from his dropping jaw.

“Ohhhh Goddesses Noooo!!! Not My Balls!?!”

Maple Rowan, a blue-haired short stack rogue with a bad habit of not being able to keep a solid job, gulps and bites her lower lip in guilt. She feels bad as she watches the red head above her tremble in her hostage holding palms.

After all…she’s the one mangling his defenseless testicles like they’re fresh, soft, dough balls.

“Be quiet and don’t move! Or I’ll…I’ll have to make sure this feels ten times worse before the REAL pain becomes unbearable.”

“Noo! No No! Don’t! You Can’t Do This To Me!!”

“You sure about that?”

With sharp thumb nails pressing deep into the two chunky nard’s center, Maple can feel each ball slowly suffocate all alone as she keeps them separated from one another. She holds on when he begs and taps her arm with desperation. And unfortunately for him she plans on keeping a tight grip on his sack till he begins to cry for his mommy.

I have to do what I’m told…

Ironically, being extra “muscle” is what she’s found herself today. To make men squirm and howl for mercy as their nutmeat bubbles between her little green fingers. But don’t get it wrong, this isn’t Maple’s first time being asked to do this.

It’s a known fact that short stacks in Bustia, especially goblin girls, are infamous for being experts at one particular testicle ruining move:

The Double Handed Gonad Squeeze.

“Get off! R-Right now! You d-dumb bitc—!”

Cruuuunchhh—CRUNCH!

His puppy dog pupils shrink and his already pale face somehow goes whiter as a big splash of boiling testicular nausea fills his stomach. He makes a pitiful sound that only makes men seem weaker than what they already are.

“AHHEIII!!!”

“—Hey! I said: Don’t. Move! Unless you DON'T want to have elf babies in the future?”

Maple seethes through her sharp clenched teeth as the unlucky man whimpers and drools all over himself. Trying to keep her loyalty to today's headache of a job from slipping, Maple finds it easier to stay in role by threatening his crumbling bloodline.

“Stoooop! You’re K-K-Killing MY BALLS!”

“If you’re lucky you’ll get to keep one. Maybe…”

Being a goblin doesn’t have a lot of its advantages. We’re not innately gifted with sorcery, unless we’re already cursed. And being under five-foot-three doesn’t leave much room for intimidating tactics either. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. Because when you’re waist height for most men…it’s easier to snatch up a pair of danglers before their owner can say—

“AwwwhhPleaseee!!! I’m So Sorry! I’ll Fucking Do Anything For You! Don’t Break My Balls!!!”

Tsk. Don’t pay attention to his begging. There’s nothing I can do for him now…his nuts don’t belong to him anymore…just do the job, Maple.

“Quit it, with the whining. You’re being such a loser, Dwight, you know that? All you had to do was pay on time. Not feed me more bullshit about your big breakups and family problems. You know I’m not here for all that garbage.”

That’s Chamuro. The deadly but cute, bubbly ass, Faerie enforcer who’s paying Maple to help her collect payments from “spoiled scum.”

Her words, not Maple’s.

“Now let’s see. Maple. Which one do you think should go first? Lefty…or Righty?”

Chamuro doesn’t just occupy the space around her; she commands it with a cold calculated authority, felt through her eerie abilities.

Faeries are like Daemons. They’re so hard to read sometimes…

“…I don’t know,” Maple says, still on her knees. Still destroying Dwight’s pride and joys. Feeling each ball beg her to let up on the pressure. But if she wants to be paid right, she’s gotta do a little better than this.

“But well…from what I can feel down here. His little one…lefty…ain’t going to last much longer.”

“Huuhawwh?!”

That one gets Dwight to shriek out for his mommy. Just like Maple knew it would. It makes her feel bad and hot between her legs at the same time…fuck she’s so pent up.

For once she was really letting the power she held over a man play through her fuzzy mind. A guy like Dwight who’s always had everything he wanted was now fighting against the destruction of his nuts. It’s a fight Maple knows he’s not going to win.

“Hmm. Perfect then. Hold his smaller nut out to me then.”

“Nooo!!!”

“I…of course!.”

Maple does as she’s told, gulping hard and tilting her head to look at the one in charge of this entire thing.

Standing barely four and a half feet tall, Chamuro makes up for the height difference with four-inch green stiletto heels that click against the locked room’s wooden floors like a countdown timer. Her wings and tits are her real masterpiece though. Shimmering, translucent membranes of deep teal flicker like living embers behind her, shaped like the wings of a burning butterfly.

They don’t flutter; they snap with a sharp, rhythmic pattern that mirrors her mood.

Above her sharp chin, small nose, a wild waterfall of hair blends seamlessly flow in streaks of snowy white and vivid malachite down to her G Cup, milk filled, jugs that spill out of an open neck button up. It frames an angry but adorable face that looks like it’s been carved from porcelain and deadly resentment.

She’s a natural ballbuster and Maple is stuck with her for the rest of the day…

— Three Hours Ago —

The Lower West Side of Malorria doesn’t smell rich. In fact, it doesn’t smell like anything good at all. With its overflowing trash bags in alleyways and burnt elixirs in discarded flasks with skull logos, this crime-filled district is full of bad seeds.

Maple knows the scent well because it’s where she operates the most. The stench of low level “goon” and “jobber” clings to her reputation like a bad stain. Her failures mark her like tattoos on pale skin and her very bones felt heavy with shame…but her will was still unbroken.

I hate this place. It's filled with people who've given up on their dreams and settled for survival…

She pulls her big,stitched, cloak tighter around her short and thick frame, the hood shadowing her pushed back, wavy sky blue hair and pointy ears. At five-foot-three, she’s easy to overlook. Which is exactly how she likes it.

Her trusty iron, nut crunching, Ball Basher hangs from her leathery belts by its black thick rope coiled neatly with the heavy sphere thumping against her thick thigh with each step. Her dragon tooth dagger is strapped to her other hip, kept hidden beneath the big coat. It’s a precious weapon she's kept with her for quite some time now.

It’s her most valuable possession, and yet…she'd sell it before she'd let her siblings go hungry.

It’s their last year at Signal Academy. The public adventuring high school that gave students like them a chance at something better. They'd been so excited when they'd gotten in. So proud…

Maple swore to herself that she'd keep them there, no matter what it cost. So here she is. Again. Looking for work she wasn't going to be proud of.

The Blue Lorelei Lantern Smoke Shop sits at the corner of Dregs Alley and Ohashi Soak Street. Its windows are grimy and it’s painted sign hangs a bit crooked. Inside, the air is thick with pipe smoke and mummering conversations. The kind of place where deals are made and secrets are sold.

Maple pushes through the door and the two cracked egg shaped bells above it jingle weakly.

The shop's interior is always cramped. Shelves lined with jars of dried herbs and powdery vials of colorful, questionable ash, fill the rooms. A few patrons lounge on worn chairs, a pair of human rogues in dark black and grey leather, a bald snake Fawnix woman nursing a drink with her fangs, and a half-elf with more knives on his vest than sense.

Behind the counter stood Mercy, a human woman in her mid-forties with iron-grey and yellow hair pulled into a severe bun and a patch over her left eye. Her one good eye sweeps over Maple with practiced familiarity.

"Rowan," Mercy says, her voice harsh from the years of smoking. "Long time no see,” she says sarcastically.

"Yup. You know me. Been busy." Maple hops onto a stool, her tapped up steel toe boots dangling. "Got any assignments for someone with my set of skills?"

Mercy's lips twitch into a dry smile.

"Skills. Ha, right. You’re funny."

The two rogue men at the corner table chuckle more rudely though. They’re low, dismissive sounds but they make a point to be heard. One of them, a little hotshot human with two golden top teeth, spiky hair, and a heavy bulge between his legs, leans back in his chair.

"Skills, she says. Little goblin thinks she's the real deal huh?"

Maple's blue eyes flick to him. The X-shaped scar above her right eyebrow seems to deepen as her expression flattens.

"Got a problem, numb nuts?" she asks, her voice cool.

The rogue's grin widens. "Yeah. I was just saying to my friends earlier, This ain't the kinda place for wannabes. You have to know what you’re capable of before—"

"I remember asking her," Maple interrupts, "Not you. So next time, learn to keep your lip shut and mind your business…”

She glances down at his crotch and furrows her dark eyebrows at his outlined and overfilled sack. Sometimes it’s the jerks who get blessed with things they don’t deserve.

“…or I’ll make sure you can’t piss straight for a week.”

Feeling insulted, the rogue man’s left hand drifts toward his belt where he keeps his holstered revolver.

“Grgh! Is that a threat, you little shit?”

Maple's fingers brush the rope of her ball basher and Mercy sighs before snapping.

“It’s a ballbreaking guarantee. Want me to show you sometime?”

"Enough you two. Jean, go smoke outside. You’ve been here all morning and I’m tired of looking at your ugly mug," Mercy orders the one man talking back to head out.

“What? You serious Mercy?”

“Out. Before I help her get in that free shot at your danglers.”

“I’d pay to see that,” the snake woman says with a flick of her pointy tongue.

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Jean mutters but heads on out to cool his head. But not before Maple hears him call her a little bitch…

“So, you want work, Rowan? I got something. But I don't think you'll like it."

Maple's attention snaps back to the shopkeeper, holding herself from chasing after the rogue and making the rest of his day pure agony.

A strong uppercut from behind would flatten that jerk’s balls into pancakes…

"At this point Merc, I'll take anything."

"Yeah? Well, the Blue Devil gang's always looking for recruits. They pay—"

"No." Maple's jaw tightens. "I won’t work for gangs. Especially not those freaks…they’re beyond fucked up."

The rogue’s pal from earlier laughs again, getting Maple to grit her teeth.

"Too good for bandits too, are ya? That’s the first I’ve ever heard, ’specially coming from a gobbo."

Maple ignores him and the others who snicker. Even though she wants to slam her fist between all those thighs and crumble pairs of testicles like they’re crackers, the blue haired goblin meets Mercy's eye and holds it.

"I'm serious…I need real work. Something that actually pays."

Mercy studies her for a long moment. Then she reaches under the counter and pulls out a black rolled scroll, and slides it across the worn wood.

"There's a bitch brat named Chamuro Blakey," Mercy says, "She's apart of the Summrfate collecting crew. They have…intense methods when it comes to collection week. Fits up there with your style. 'Debt retrieval,' they call it. Apparently her last partner got his eggs smashed in during yesterday’s job. From a bunny girl.”

“Yeesh. Let me guess? He’s got a pair of cracked eggs that need a few days of healing?”

“Nah, there’s no coming back from a kick like that. He’s got a matching set of goop now.”

Maple cracks a grin, thanking the goddesses that an opportunity opened up for her.

“How unlucky.”

“I’d say. From what I heard, it was a silver circle paladin too,” Mercy whistles and shakes her head in disappointment.

“Huh. Hope he said goodbye to his boys before…”

Maple makes two popping noises with her plump lips that gets a genuine smile from Mercy.

“Heh, you can’t tell these morons anything. I’ve tried to help them before, you know? Letting them know about the leatherback cups I sell in the back. But nope. No one ever wants to listen. They all think protection is a joke until they’re begging for a Ballric to save their weak balls.”

Ballrics are special class Clerics in Bustia who specialize in fragile autonomy recovery. They have the best paying jobs out of all the freelancers.

Whether it be an Innate Healing Sorcery through bloodlines or being able to summon a Hexxborn with Healing Techniques, it’s still very rare and pricey to come across a life changing cleric. Especially the ones that can heal even the most destroyed organs. Being able to heal testicles back to their heartiest state with little to no worry.

It sounds like a miracle because that’s what it is. So If you’re one of the lucky, drop dead gorgeous broads who can regenerate a man’s tortured seed bag without needing to create a concoction or deliver a long winded prayer, you get to set your own prices!

No guild cap. No mercy. It’s power in a whole different way.

“But the Bunny girls here? When they’re kicking, those legs don’t usually leave much behind besides a sack of buttery slush between them legs.”

Even that puts a chill up Maple’s spine.

“Poor men,” Maple grunts, rolling her eyes and not really believing in her own words.

Whenever she gets in the mindset of working she forces herself to shake away any sympathy for others. If she’s going to be in vicious goblin mode, she can’t show any weakness.

“But this…Blakey. She’s legit?”

“Yeah, I’ve known her for a few years now. Ain’t the tallest or scariest out of her family but, yeah. She’s legit. She was just in here earlier looking for an extra set of hands and I told her I’d keep an eye out. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Maple unrolls the message. A name, a contact number, and a short description: Debt Collector. Fast. Discreet. Merciless, especially towards testicle owners. Pays well.

"Hmm…do you know how ‘well’ she pays?"

"Enough to cover your rent for three months. Maybe more if the job goes smooth, you’ll pick up something extra."

Maple's heart stutters. Three months. That’ll buy her little gremlins extra time. Time to finish their exams. Time to get their certifications. Time to—

"Where do I meet her?"

Mercy's eye narrows.

"You sure about this? Summrfate doesn't mess around, kid. They collect from people who can't pay and they like their targets like that. That means they collect from desperate people who've already lost everything. It's not pretty work, Blue. These aren’t…you know. People who deserve it."

Maple's hand tightens around the scroll. Mercy knows about Maple’s inner softness. But when times gets hard, morality loses its colors…

"Neither is watching your family starve," Maple sighs quietly.

Mercy is silent for a moment. Then she nods.

"Reach out and Blakey will contact you. She'll give you the details." She taps the scroll. "That's her contact seal. Bite on a thumb and the blood will give it a buzz. Then you just wait for her call."

Maple tucks the parchment into her cloak and stands. The other rogues are still smirking and watching, but she doesn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Thanks, Mercy."

"Don't thank me yet, Rowan. You might not like what you find."

Maple leaves the shop, the bell jingling behind her. But before she walks away, she spots the chatterbox, Jean from earlier, lighting up a clover cigarette with his back turned to her.

He leans against a damp brick wall and exhales a plume of smoke. His posture radiates the smug confidence of a man who believes he’s the predator in a world of prey.

He doesn’t hear her approach, and he certainly doesn’t see the moment Maple’s ballbusting intentions zeroes in on him.

“Time to get some practice in…”

In one fluid, blurry motion, Maple lunges. Channeling the fury of a short woman, Maple’s goblin heritage and their self defense tips coils through her closed-fisted nutstrike.

WHUMP—CRUNCH!!

Her dark green knuckles collide with the squishy back center of his sweaty ballsack with the sound of a heavy mallet hitting two small grapes. The uppercutting impact is surgical, slamming his fragile eggs upward into his own pelvis.

"Ghuhhaa?!?"

Jean’s unsuspecting scream isn’t a man's scream; it’s a high-pitched, ultrashocked wail that sounds like a tea kettle reaching a boiling point.

For a heartbeat, time shatters for Jean and seems to freeze as his eyes roll back into his head and his tongue hangs out. His body locks, his knees cross in an agonizing pose, and as he feels both of his sources of strength retract in terror.

“Told you. Ballbreaking guarantee.”

Maple grins as she feels a nice jolt rush between her thighs as the useless rogue in front of her begins to cry for his crushed nuts...

— - —

Maple barely made it two blocks when her cheap but personal crystal scroll buzzed. Ducking into an alcove she pulls the slim device from her pocket and flips it open. The number on the screen was unfamiliar but she knew who it was.

"Hello?"

A voice crackles through, smooth, almost musical, with an undercurrent of something sharp.

"Ms. Rowan?”

“Yes?”

“This is Blakey. If you’re serious about being a helping hand today, I need you at the Goldenhorn BK Apartments. Third floor. Room 6. Now.”

“Okay. On my—”

“Don't be followed."

The connection cuts before Maple can say anything else and she ends up staring at the dark screen. Goldenhorn BK, she thinks, That's in the old district.

She starts walking, her hood pulled low, her ball basher swinging gently at her hip.

Don't be followed…

Maple smiles grimly. She's spent her whole life not being followed. It’s the one thing she’s good at.

— - —

The Goldenhorn BK Apartments is a crumbling monument to better days. The buildings had once been elegant. Back when Maple’s parents were around, embracing the adventuring lifestyle. There’s hints of old vibrant wallpaper, orange stained glass windows, and a marble lobby that has long since been covered in grime.

Now it’s a home to the desperate and the damned.

Maple climbs the creaking stairs to the third floor, her boots silent on the worn wood. The door at the end of the hallway is slightly ajar so she pushes it open.

“Awwwhhh!”

Inside; it’s a single, one bathroom, room with a futon, a wooden table, and two chairs. The windows are boarded up, letting in only slivers of the bright purple sky outside. Maple’s eyes quickly lock onto the source of the screaming: a red-spotted Fawnix frog man with a droopy long tongue and watery eyes, sitting on the futon half dressed.

His black hair is wild and messy, covering his blown out red eyes that look glossy and unfocused. He’s wearing a black tank top and tight green briefs concealing a half hard, throbbing, erection draped on his thigh.

He’s trembling. Because someone’s heel is grinding his small rubbery frog balls into flat lilly pads…

That someone, standing over him with one knee raised and her left foot pressing down onto his manhood, is Chamuro Blakey.

Maple's breath catches in her chest when Chamuro's eyes, pale green with slit white pupils, snap to her.

“Ah, there you are, partner,” her voice is smoother than silk and feels like a needle at the throat, “You’re just on time.”

Chamuro is wearing a green and black striped pantsuit that is downright immaculate. No doubt tailored perfectly to her tiny and busty frame, she leans forward without fear of spilling out.

Maple swallows hard.

"You're Chamuro?"

"I am."

The faerie smiles. It’s a thin, almost pleasant expression that doesn’t reach her eyes. It only makes her look hotter to Maple.

"And you're my extra set of hands, right? See Mark,”

She shifts her foot side to side and the drooling man shudders in more ball related agony.

“I told you I had a cute friend on the way. Don’t be rude. Say hi.”

Crrruunch!

“Hiiiii!!!”

Maple raises an eyebrow.

“Hi?”

Mark’s throat sac balloons out as he croaks out a nerve freezing shriek when the air around Chamuro’s foot vibrates with spiritual weight. It felt like standing at the bottom of the ocean and being forced to open your eyes.

Maple leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching.

“As I was saying before…Summrfate Collecting Crew doesn’t like thieves,” Chamuro says, her voice light. Conversational. The kind a woman uses before he makes you regret crossing her path.

“Especially not ones that skim from their own. Taking from your own family? Just to make some extra coin from our own product? Mark. How could you?”

Mark croaks again. “I-I didn’t—”

Chamuro presses down harder and Maple scrunches her nose when she hears the poor man’s balls break even more.

“Fuuuck! Stop it!! Stooop!!!”

Mark’s webbed hands scrabble at her calf but he’s too weak. His bulging eyes dart to Maple, pleading.

Goblin, do something! You’re small like me! You understand.

Maple did but she just cocks her head to the side. This is better than she expected actually. This was like a dinner and a show…

“Don’t lie,” Chamuro murmurs.

She grabs his loose curls and enjoys the way his sweaty nuts squirm under her foot. Up close, her smile is all teeth. Not sharp like Maple’s. Human teeth. Which somehow made it worse.

“Summrfate sent me the ledger. You've sold two out of three boxes of our Amethyst Swan. To Hashirama and her goons of all people. That’s a big no no.”

Mark’s throat sac deflates.

“T-They said…they would gonna kill m-my spawn if I didn’t—”

“Everyone’s got spawn,” Chamuro cut in.

She taps his chest with two fingers. The futon under him groans from the shimmery weight. Maple can tell…his balls aren’t going to be able to last much longer.

“Mark, I don’t care why. I care where. Where’s the money? Where’s the last box?”

“I don’t knowww!”

Maple pushes off the doorframe. Time to earn my cut. She crouches beside Chamuro, dagger still sheathed but her blue eyes are focused on his outlined spunk makers.

“Come on, give the nice girl what she wants,” Maple suggests and then when she sees him look down at her, she continues.

“Y’know what Clerics get paid to fix broken boy balls?” she asks Mark, trying to be conversational. “Enough to buy whatever they want. Like fish and nice Jewry. Big fat gemstones…the heavy ones.”

Mark blinks his sideways eyelids. Confused. Terrified.

“Shame neither of us heal,” Maple fake pouts and sighs.

She pats his clammy knee.

“So if, uh, my friend here accidentally…breaks something...that’s it. Pop Pop. No more boy balls.”

Chamuro’s smile widens. She looks at Maple, realizing just how much she’s going to love having this goblin girl around.

“Goblin’s right. I’m not a Cleric.”

She then looks at Mark and her green and white hair starts to float. Her boot twists and she manages to trap his larger right nut against a crack beneath him. Just a fraction…

“I’m much worse.”

The spiritual pressure spikes and the cheap light
above them bursts with two manly orbs following right behind…

Alright. Time to collect some balls today, Maple thinks as a familiar warmth goes through her thighs…