Wally Balls Get To Play James Bond

When I became a big girl, I realized how many guys wonder how they would act if they were a spy who fell into enemy "hands," to speak, and had their balls given the 3rd degree-and then some-treatment.

I found certain authors of thrillers-I might name Ken Follett and, in particular, Frederick Forsyth-can be relied upon to provide material for a lifetime of uneasy flashbacks and gnawing "what if...?" fantasies. If you are a guy who has read the scene in "The Jackal," with the huge Polish French Legionnaire in the hands of Charles de Gaulle's security force, with the electrodes on either side of his glans penis and on his nipples, his feet in water, and the panel of interrogators handling the switch—and how he holds out for three days before cracking into madness and dying—you can more or less forget about EVER escaping a shuddering fantasy about "manhood."

I did not have insight, as I said, until I was a big girl. Oh, I knew men's balls were internal organs hanging out in the world to be cooled, for the sake of healthy sperm (I was pre-med, for a while) and as sensitive to pain as a kidney or a sinus membrane. Maybe more; I wouldn't know. Even in my late teens, as a senior at the Academy, I was quite the little scientist. I liked to experiment on my boyfriends, just fascinated with their precious sac.

I remember once, early on, lying naked with one guy, he with his eyes closed, ignoring me after he had come. I cocked my middle finger back on my thumb, built up a lot of tension, then released a hard snap on the right nut.

My, what a reaction! Honestly, I had no idea! The poor guy levitated three inches off the ground, shrieked, and jerked his legs up to his chest in classic protection mode. I mean, he was rolling on the bed, face bright red, hands down to nurse himself.

Jeez, I honestly had no idea.

He was so incensed that I said he could do anything he wanted to my skinny body to get even. All he gasped was "Nothing...There is nothing like this. Nothing..." He finally agreed to twist my too-long, very dark, slightly freakish nipples almost off. I squeaked because it hurt, but nothing like when I zapped his balls. After that, at regular intervals, when he had a raging hard-on, he would ask me to squeeze his balls. I like holding his manhood in one hand.

Well, big girl, now. And I have written about my friend Wally, who is not quite twice my age, handsome and well-hung, and would like to marry me or be my lover but must settle for buying me drinks Friday evenings at our fancy Maidstone Arms and ogling my low-cut black dresses. Once in a great while, I do it, with Wally. He's very hot and unendingly appreciative. I wrote about the time I performed a nude version of "The Trojan Women" for him, ending up with Helen of Troy recaptured by the Greeks and brought in chains to service Menelaus. I knelt with my arms behind me, my smoldering brown eyes locked on his, rubbing my very stiff nips back and forth across his knees, and sucked him off, swallowing his cum. Next time we met for drinks he gave me a $7,500 diamond bracelet as "a little remembrance." Wally is redundantly rich. Can't imagine why he bothers with ME.

Well, the story begins (if anyone is still reading) at the bar with Wally having his Jack and I the expensive Chardonnay he buys me.

He said: "If there is one fantasy that never goes away, it is about being naked in the hands of the enemy who can do anything to my balls and no matter how I scream, they don't have to stop. I wonder over and over, what do you do when you can't stand it and can't stop it?"

I nodded, sipping my chardonnay. I said, "I read 'Triple,' by Ken Follett, where the Israeli spy gets interrogated by the Egyptians."

"Oh, God! Ellen! What would I do? If they wouldn't stop? I mean, even if I told them everything but they didn't believe me? I mean, just kept zapping my sac? Would I be screaming, weeping, begging?"

I said: "If someone is enough of a monster to do that to you, then the last thing that should bother you is that you scream and plead. Shit, that's what it's all about. The dwarf pricks who get off on this are as irrelevant as fire ants. Just imagine that they are fire ants, but no as bright..."

He was shaking his head. "That isn't the narrative, Ellen. It just isn't. Think James Bond, with his balls hanging down through a slit in the wicker chair and the bad guy slamming them over and over with a rattan—and Bond never tells the secret."

I am very well read, in certain areas. I said, "Wally, do you know that intelligence services train their agents to try every trick to resist for 24 hours, like by confessing a false story that has to be checked? And they figure, after that, no one can hold out, but they have time to alert other agents that they are going to be blown?"

Wally's gaze is fixed on my nice chest skin, revealed by the black dress, and is studying the very modest slopes of my breasts that are exposed. He says: "It isn't about logic. It is about being a man. Not immediately going wee-wee-all-the-way-home. It is about have a big dick and nuts you can be flaunting."

I sip my expensive chardonnay. "You mean, if you had a small penis, you would be mortified, but if you had a big dick, you would hold up your head?"

'Yeah, yeah you always know how to phrase it so it sounds crazy."

"It is crazy."'

"But it would be unbearable if my dick were small. But you know, of course, it isn't..."

"You have a beautiful, big cock, Wally," I say, "and just friggin' forget about the moral midgets of the world and enjoy it."

He is sipping his Jack, he is shaking his handsome head as though in dawning comprehension, his eyes are lifted to mine. "I can't, Ellen. I just can't. That's logic. This is visceral."

By now, the chardonnay is taking control and I am annoyed. "Okay, Wally, okay. I see where this is going. I'll buy an electric zapper. We hang you naked from eyebolts in the rafters and I will zap you till you are blubbering like a baby and have no dignity whatsoever."

And I said, to make my point, "And you will have passed the ONLY important test of your manhood, is that right?"

Wally says, eyes lowered to about the level of my actually quite unremarkable décolletage, nods and says, "That is what I want you to do, Ellen. I know it is squalid and you will think I'm hitting on you, again. I know, I know. But this is what I must experience, and I have no one I could conceivably dare to ask."

"You're saying..."

He nodded. "I've GOT to!"

So...Wally is hanging naked, still clothed, his wrists in cuffs and jacked up toward the rafter. His toes touch the ground, but barely. Get real, at 185 pounds Wally isn't going to able to dangle by his wrists long enough for me even to start. Talk about breaking him!

I leave to get a glass of wine, and, when I return, I look him up and down with cold, gleeful cruelty. I sneer. "Look who we have here, at last, so good to see you like this. I have looked forward to this."

I pretend to turn away, to sip the wine, but as I do I casually whip the back of my hand to deliver a serious jolt into his crotch. When he has finished yelling and let his jacked-up legs down to the floor, I give him my special Blofeld cackle: "That's what you think hurts? This is going to be interesting."

Wally is breathing hard, his face red. I put down the wine, step over, eyes locked on his, and jerk open his belt buckle. I drag his trousers down and whip him off his feet in pulling them away. I turn back, my gaze now locked on the good-sized iguana curled up in his underwear pants. My face as I look is my best diabolical.

As though bored and slightly disgusted, I seize the sides of his shorts and tear them down, my fingernails ranking his skin. His dick flops out.

"Ow, damn!"

I have jerked the shorts from under his feet. And now, wine glass in hand, I stand admiring what he's got. He is stretched long and naked. Wally has nothing to be modest about. His dick is thick and long, sprouting now in a gentle arc from thick hair. It is rapidly lifting its head to have a good look around. "Let's see what we have to play with," I snarl. Sipping from my glass, not even looking, my fingers take his cock like I own it now and am weighing it, hefting it. "Looks like you could have a good time with this," I sneer. I jerk his foreskin back and forth a few times, then, taking the base, I slap the long dick up and down, smacking his belly, smacking his leg.

Then, I grab the whole fat rod and brutally haul back the foreskin, so the plump, dark-red, glistening meat butts forward.

"Ouch!"

I give my deep, evil chuckle. "Ha! THAT hurts?" I shake my head, grinning.

His dick is jacked straight up and arched back to brush his belly. It is almost blue, with swollen veins like creeping vines up a pole. The underside of the head is facing me, with its two fat cheeks, and between, the little tab of the meatus. As though thoughtful, I run my finger up and down the shaft, under the head, smearing around his first pre-cum. The boner bucks back appreciatively and Wally moans in pleasure.

I have debated how much to "give him." I mean, come on! At least partly this is Wally scheming to get more of my bod. I un-button and drop to the floor my black dress. I kick it away. I am wearing super-bikini black panties and black push-up bra and standing on four-inch stilts. Wally is staring-so appreciative. Wally, Wally, no one ever got interrogated like this! He is staring at my mons; all he can see is the fringes of my unkempt pussy hair not covered by the bikini.

Okay, we know it's a fantasy. I have purchased a standard sex-toy zapper, run on batteries. The instructions say in bold lettering NEVER touch the penis or testicles or the nipples or vagina." The guy in the Pink Pussy Cat Boutique, on West Fourth Street, whom I know well (See my story "The Twat Tormentor"), says the warning is boiler plate language. "No manufacturer is going to sell something that guarantees an avalanche of infuriated law suits. He says, "If you put this thing on full and zap his balls, he's going to go through the roof, but when he lands, he won't be injured. Same with the dick. Having said that...I once touched this thing to my nipple and I never, EVER used it again. Some of the really rough trade among the gay guys love these things, so I'm sure someone must have gotten it in the nuts—although I never heard of it."

I am right in front of Wally. If his dick gets any more swollen or any longer, I might have to stop to hang with my arms around his neck like a horny bonobo, my legs around his waist, and lower my pussy onto the thing.

I look into his eyes. I flick on the zapper. No noise until it makes contact, and then, BBZZZTTT and crackling sparks! I say malevolently, "I will be curious to see how you beg—some are most imaginative, indeed, and some only keep weeping about 'mommy'. We shall see."

For a few moments, holding the zapper at bay, my fingers run up and down his long boner, sliding over the smooth skin on a coating of pre-cum. He closes his eyes and I have my moment. I turn to "low" and diddle his right nipple.

Um, yes, his eyes come open. I never heard anyone scream "NO!" so piteously. Jeez, I mean we're barely started. Probably just startled him. Frowning in curiosity, I push into the other nipple and hold it. I am NOT going to go on endlessly with his shouts, shrieks, moans, pleas, and even rage. I will quote only the good stuff.

I take away the zapper and Wally, panting like a runner, is saying, "No, no, no. No. No, no." Very monotonous. His eyes are fixed in dread on the zapper. I am getting curious. I'm a girl good sport, remember.

Placing down the zapper, I reach behind, unhook my bra, and toss it on the couch. I have 32Bs, which curve upward to their point, on which stand rather embarrassing large, dark nipples. These things do not even bounce. I look down and take hold of one tit in two fingers and slowly massage it. Yup, already yearning outward and upward about half an inch. I flick.

Then, I take the zapper and glance at Wally. I move in with the zapper and use it to push flat my perky titty.

I drop the fucking thing with a screech of surprise and agony. My hand flies up to the burning tit. I am repeating, "Ow, ow, ow, ow!"

"I can't believe you did that," Wally says. "You're totally amazing. The only woman I ever want."

"Fuck!" I gasp. I am reaching down for the zapper. I say, "I don't think you want this, Wally."

"Yes, I do. Don't stop, whatever I say, until you're zapped the head of my prick and held it against my balls. DON'T stop."

Whew! And fatso has a heart attack and what do I say when the ambulance guys arrive? "I'm from Burkina Faso and this is our first-aid for heart attack?"

"I hope you don't mind, spy, but women in our agency greatly enjoy these evenings. You can't see them, they are sitting back there—in the dark. But I assure, they are enjoying your commendably stiff pecker and will have a wonderful laugh when you are weeping. They like to rub their pussies very slowly, so they can last until you break and they come."

"You can shove it up their pussies and your ass, monster! You fucking sadistic clown!"

Very good, Wally! I reach out with the zapper on medium and touch the shiny metal to his navel, which, almost before his screams, is twitching and jerking in a way I never saw. Wally has gotten with the game. No more pleading. His head is bent forward, looking down at himself, his breath is quick, rasping little cries.

I reach out and shove the zapper into his pubic hair about an inch above his dick. Now, involuntarily, he knees jerk up to his chest and he lets loose a long squeal of agony that goes on for a while.

When he comes down, his prick has fallen to about level, decidedly droopy. He meets my eyes and I begin to push down my panties very slowly. I don't shave, never have. Quite a thick band of very black, curly fur begins way down between my legs and runs up to a few inches beneath my belly button. Against my very white skin, it must look like tar. You must burrow down to even glimpsed my pussy lips.

Naked before him, now, I study him, letting the tension build. I hold the zapper calmly between us, but he can't take his eyes off it. Or maybe its my pussy. Or both.

He lifts his head, stretching his neck, eyes half closed, and sighs. Another opening. The zapper is on high. I whip it over and use the metal to lift his fallen pecker. Right, a zap under his dick head. I leave it for a moment. The buzzing and crackling are unnerving.

For a moment, I see Wally's eyes bulge wide open, his mouth too, but his is silent. There can be too much pain to get breath to scream. Then it comes, a nightmare howl I didn't think human lungs could make and it goes on and on. Now, he's scaring the shit out of me.

When he pipes down, I get a chance to say, "Are you enjoying this, girls? Whatever happened to this big man's big pecker?"

With that, I put down the zapper, clunk to the floor on my knees, reach up for Wally's dangling meat—wow, it's hot, throbbing—and pop it in my mouth, sucking gently. Doesn't take long before Wally is breathing hard but not because of the pain. He is starting to jerk his hips, push his hard-on down my throat. I take more and more of it. Don't want him to come, though. Got to build up his reserves.

Now his pecker is at full salute, again. Miraculous recovery. I turn to the other side of the room. "What do you think, ladies? Bigger than ever? Wish I could let you have some, but nothing will be left when I'm finished. If he's still alive, you can have a suck."

Getting into the spirit, here. I have stood up. Wally has a huge smile of pure satisfaction. I come and stand close, take his dick, lift my pussy to it, and use the head of his dick to massage my clit. I immediately start moaning.

I mutter, "You don't want any more, Wally. You've proven yourself. Let's go with the pleasure."

He is shaking his head very gravely. "No, Ellen. No yet. One more thing, remember?"

I am still using his nice firm, wet dickhead to massage my clit, which has grown some. Reluctantly, I stop.

"Okay, the games are over. Either you tell us what we want to know-or you cease to be a man. Believe me, the women know. They are waiting to see you go into blubbering incoherence before they finish jerking off."

"Why don't you go and burn some kittens, monsters? Have some real fun, you moral midgets!"

Wally! Tell them!

He has a nice hard on, again. Amazing guy!

Now, I come to stand close to him. His gaze is locked on the zapper. I kneel and study his balls. He starts to moan, "No no, no..."

Very slowly I move the wand toward his big sac, hanging peacefully, with no hint of what's going to happen. The wand is an inch from his nuts; I look up, he is gazing down, fascinated. I wait. He nods.

Instead of just a touch, I use the wand to slap his balls from one side, then the other, then back to the first, then I jam the thing between his nuts for a good long second and yank it out.

Jeez, his whole body is in spasm, legs jerking, head whipping back and forth, chest heaving—everything but wiggling his ears. Again, the body cannot find its voice; his mouth is open silently screaming, his eyes buggering. When it comes, it has the high, shrill pitch of a wailing woman, sort "Eeeeeee! Eeeeee!" But that is only for starters. When he really gets his voice, he is...yes, talking in tongues. Many religious references. And then, he is weeping, uncontrollably. He can only get out, "It hurts!"

I take my wine and have a big, big gulp. I cannot fucking believe that my titties are obscenely erect and pre-cum is dripping from my pussy and running down my thighs. I am getting off on this.

When Wally has finished, hanging limp as beef carcass from the chain, head fallen on his chest, with gentle sobs or maybe gulps, I turn to the audience and say: "Tonight is a special treat, ladies. Here is the spy who cries but will not break. Put on your masks. You have the honor of saying you sucked the dick of the great American spy!"

Wally lifts his head and opens his eyes. I have formed a "line" at his right. The first agent woman comes, stands at attention, kneels, and takes his dick in her mouth. "Next," I say. Then, "Next!"

By now, Wally is swollen and rising notch by notch. He mutters, "Jesus, it feels wonderful on my dick, but my balls feel as though they're under cinderblocks. God, I wonder how long this will hurt?"

The last woman in line (still me) is now tickling under his swollen dickhead with a wet tongue that zips back forth, over and over. Occasionally, the tongue makes a circle round the head, but always comes back to where his pleasure lives. His dick is now straight up, again, and the moans and muttering are very different.

He is thrusting his hips, pushing his prick out. I let him slide it in and out between my lips, gazing up at him. Just when I think he might come, I stop and stand up. "Oh..." he protests.

I hold up the zapper.

"What?" he asks. Then, more urgently, "What, Ellen?"

"Your asshole?"

He shakes his head.

"Okay," I say, shrugging. I kneel, then fall back on the floor, facing him. I spread my long, very slim, white legs very wide in a nice yoga pose that opens my pussy so wide the labia are stretched away leaving the clit by itself, with its head half poking out of its cowl. My high heels are all I am wearing.

I take the zapper, turn it down to low, and let my head fall back. Got to lift my legs higher so he can see the action. Ah, now my asshole is on display, looking right up at him. I move the zapper toward it.

"No! You're crazy! Don't!"

I can imagine the view of my thick pussy hair pulled aside, the inside of my cunt wide and pink, and my nice tight brown asshole, very private and tender, just below it. This is the stuff of Wally's daydreams.