I felt the thrill rise in my chest as I heaved his limp muscular frame out the truck and onto the motel bed. The courtyard was deserted, the only light from the buzzing sign and the swinging of headlights from the distant freeway. It was all planned, of course, and he wasn't even nearly my first, but it was always a very different thing planning as to doing. The flimsy plastic dust sheets rustled and crinkled and clung as I hauled him onto that pedestal, but they never tore. He lay still now, his breathing slow and shallow, his body bound by the gentle ropes of the powder I'd so innocently dusted into his drink. I looked over him, and I felt that familiar rush. That excitement of the predator looking on its prey, ready to pluck him at its leisure.
I tugged and pulled at his jeans and his flannel before finally surrendering to the ENT scissors, lazy but effectively slicing until he was as naked as the day his mother born him. How she'd hate to see him now, if she knew what he'd become and what he'd done and what I's about to do to him. But how proud she must be to see her boy all growed up, a big strong man, muscled, making some kind of living for himself off the sweat of those broad shoulders. I got up on that bed, toying with my prey. In that moment I owned him, defenceless, sedated, his powerful arms and his fierce gaze tranquillised, every advantage of his brash maleness deserting him.
I crouched down between his legs, only one piece of clothing not yet in shreds in the trash bag. I put my hand over it, feeling the warm bulge of manhood, bundled it up into my grasp, squeezing and caressing it. I knew it was ridiculous, but it wasn't for him. Heck, he was asleep, he wouldn't know. It was for me. The closer they got to the knife, the closer their manhood came to becoming mine, the more it thrilled me. I sliced open the legs of his underwear, tore the fabric away, almost mesmerised by the gentle bob of his dick as it rolled over his orbs. He was completely hairless down there, bet he thought he was god's gift.
I leaned in closer, took in the smell, his sweat, his musk. Before I knew it I was touching it, holding it to my nose, my tongue, tasting his cock. It filled my mouth and I felt it grow, quivering attentively. Soon it would be soft forever, never giving him another ounce of pleasure, never leading him astray. I pushed my head down, allowing it to stretch my throat as I inhaled his musk. My hands found his balls, one in each palm, and I felt my heart flutter as I imagined taking them from him, taking his manhood, his muscles, his manliness. Leaving his sack empty and his cock limp and turning him into an 'it'. I savoured his taste, the pre-cum automatically oozing from him as his body responded to my touch. I sucked one of those balls, felt its smooth curves against my tongue, nipped at his cords with my teeth before I stopped myself, pulled my attention back to the task at hand.
I gloved my hands and taped his stiff cock to his belly and poured the iodine on, rubbed it into his hot skin with the swabs. I draped his groin with the sterile blue paper sheets, his sack protruding through the hole. I didn't need to rush, he'd be out a good few hours more yet, but it never took me long. Out of habit I injected the lignocaine he didn't deserve into the skin down the middle of his scrotum, held it tight as I sliced through that tough membrane. A little clear fluid leaked out, and there it was: his left ball, nearly mine.
I cut through its pale flesh and muscle envelope, pulled it away from his body and dissected his cords with the outside of my scissors like I'd learned. Tied off those arteries and veins that kept his manhood alive, One, two, three knots, one, two, three ties. I put the blade of my scissors between the second and third ties before I paused. Not yet. I took the scalpel again and cut a neat line through the wall between the two halves of his scrotum, fished out his other testicle, repeated the process. Both his nuts hung out the slit I'd made, his scrotum strangely - excitingly - empty without their bulk. Would anyone else ever see him as intimately as I had? Would anyone else ever touch his cock and feel it grow and glisten as I had? I savoured the moment. I took the scissors in one hand, and his manhood in the other, drawing them away from his body and towards mine. They were already dying, anyway, those tight stitches strangling them, cutting off his testosterone supply. I closed the handles of my scissors. His plucked fruit fell into my specimen pot with a splash of formaldehyde while his pruned cords sprang back into his body.
I stitched him up, all neat and tidy with dainty little dissolvable sutures. Cleaned up all the blood and mess, the plastic sheeting, every trace I'd ever been there. Even wiped down the door handles and surfaces though I was sure I'd been careful. Tucked him into that double bed, a quick shot of antibiotic in his thigh muscle before I hopped back in my truck. It was a long drive back, but in a few hours I'd breakfast at some diner while room service come for an early wakeup call. He'd sure get a surprise. He wouldn't remember anything, not even my face, but he wouldn't tell a soul even if he did. They never did. What man could? But I wouldn't forget a moment. And I felt justice was done.