Hubris

(Based on a picture by Whistler)

The experimental rock climbing station dominated the far corner of Bulge gym like a monument to hubris. The centerpiece, a weathered telephone pole some fifteen feet tall, jutted upward at a slight angle, its surface scarred and splintered from years of utility service before being repurposed. Metal hooks protruded from the wood at irregular intervals, pointing upward like crude talons, their sharp tips glinting under the fluorescent lights. A laminated sign dangled from a chain at the base, its red letters stark: "UNTESTED EQUIPMENT !!! USE AT OWN RISK!"

Blake's voice carried across the gym floor before his body came into view. "I'm telling you, the doctor said I'm in the ninety-ninth percentile for sperm count. Ninety-ninth!" The blonde wolf emerged from between two rows of weight machines, his entourage of three admirers trailing behind like satellites caught in orbit. His fur gleamed golden under the lights, carefully groomed to accentuate the definition of his muscles. "She actually had to run the test twice because she didn't believe the first results."

One of the groupies, a lean fox in a sports bra, giggled and touched Blake's bicep. "That's so impressive, Blake."

"You know what else is impressive?" Blake flexed his right arm, the muscle bunching into a pronounced peak. The movement made his chest bounce, and his tank top, already straining, rode up to expose the ridged landscape of his abs. "This body. Thirty years old and I'm in the best shape of my life."

The second groupie, a rabbit with doe eyes, nodded enthusiastically. "You really are."

Blake's left hand dropped to his crotch, fingers spreading across the obvious bulge that distended the front of his red gym shorts. The fabric stretched tight across the mass beneath, creating a topography of curves and valleys that left little to imagination. "And let's not forget about my equipment down here." He squeezed, the outline of his shaft visible through the thin material, thick even in its current state. "Bigger than average in every department, if you know what I mean."

The third groupie, a deer with his phone already recording, zoomed in on the adjustment. "Dude, you're insane."

"Insanely blessed, broski." Blake's hand shifted lower, cupping the heavy weight of his scrotum through the shorts. The fabric pulled taut, and the individual shapes of his testicles became visible, two massive orbs that swung with pendulous weight when he shifted his stance. They hung low, straining against the constraints of both his underwear and his gym shorts, creating a sag that was impossible to ignore. "My girlfriend is the luckiest woman alive. After two weeks of waiting, she's finally gonna let me score tonight."

"Two weeks?" The fox's eyes widened. "How are you even functioning?"

Blake thrust his hips forward, the motion making his package sway. "Built up a lot of pressure, if you catch my drift. These bad boys," he bounced on his toes, and his testicles responded with a visible jounce "are working overtime."

The group had drifted toward the experimental climbing station during the conversation, drawn by Blake's gravitational pull toward anything that might serve as a stage. His eyes fixed on the telephone pole, and a grin spread across his muzzle. "What's this thing?"

"New equipment," the deer offered, still filming. "I don't think anyone's tried it yet."

Blake's hand shot out, grabbing one of the metal hooks. It was crude, perhaps three inches long, bent at a sharp angle with a point that could pierce leather. "This is sick. I'm gonna climb this thing."

The rabbit pointed at the warning sign. "Blake, it says it's untested-"

"Everything's untested until someone with balls tries it first." Blake was already stepping into the safety harness that hung from a cable system attached to the ceiling. He yanked the straps tight around his waist, though the leg loops proved more challenging. His thick thighs required adjustment, and more problematically, his bulge kept getting in the way. He had to physically lift his package and reposition it to one side so the straps could sit properly in his groin. The harness compressed everything, making the outline of his genitals even more pronounced. His package bulged between his legs like a fleshy stress ball being squeezed from both sides.

"Safety first, right broskis?" Blake tugged on the harness clips, testing them. "Not that I'm gonna fall. This is gonna be easy."

He approached the base of the pole, placing both hands against the rough wood. The surface was unfinished, grey and weathered, with splinters jutting out at random angles. Blake didn't seem to notice or care. He planted his right foot on the lowest hook, testing his weight. The metal held firm.

"Watch and learn, boys and girls." Blake pushed upward, his left foot finding purchase on a second hook higher up. His muscles engaged, glutes flexing, calves defining, forearms straining as he gripped the pole. The tank top rode up further, exposing the small of his back where his tail emerged. "This is what peak performance looks like."

The fox wolf-whistled. "You're so strong!"

Blake paused in his ascent, feet planted on two hooks about four feet off the ground. He pressed his groin deliberately against the pole, grinding forward in a slow, exaggerated thrust. The rough wood caught on the fabric of his shorts, the friction creating a sound like sandpaper on canvas. "Mmm, yeah. Getting me warmed up for tonight."

"Blake!" The rabbit covered her mouth, but she was laughing.

"What? I'm just stretching." He thrust again, harder this time, and the mass of his genitals compressed visibly against the pole. His shaft had begun to swell from the stimulation, a growing firmness that created an even more obscene outline. The head pressed against the fabric, a distinct ridge that traveled up toward his waistband. His testicles, meanwhile, spread and flattened against the wood, their weight too substantial to fully compress. "Gotta make sure everything's in working order."

The deer kept his camera trained upward, capturing every moment. "This is going viral, dude."

Blake climbed higher, his movements fluid and practiced. At eight feet up, he paused again, looking down at his small audience. A few other gym-goers had noticed the commotion and wandered over, drawn by Blake's loud commentary. "You know what the doctor told me?" Blake called down, his voice projecting across the corner of the gym. "She said with balls this big, I could probably knock up three women in one night."

"That's not how biology works!" someone shouted from the growing crowd.

"Tell that to my sperm count, bruh!" Blake shifted his grip, moving one foot up to the next hook. The motion made his body slide against the pole, his groin dragging across the rough surface. He groaned theatrically. "Fuck, that feels good. This pole's getting me so ready."

Twelve feet up now, with only one more set of hooks before reaching the top platform. Blake's body glistened with a light sheen of exertion, his muscles pumped and defined. He hooked his right arm over a higher section of pole, freeing his left hand to reach down and adjust himself again. The movement was vulgar and shameless as he grabbed his entire package and lifted it, letting it drop with a visible bounce, the weight making his shorts sag lower on his hips.

"See this?" Blake addressed the crowd below, now numbering at least a dozen curious onlookers. "This is what virility looks like. The doctor said each of these," he cupped his testicles through his shorts, squeezing them together "is four times average size. Four. That's sixteen times the man, if you do the math."

"That's definitely not how math works either," a voice called out.

Blake just laughed, resuming his climb. At the highest set of hooks, he planted both feet firmly and turned to face outward, showing off for his audience. His tank top had ridden up to his chest, exposing his entire torso. His shorts hung low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear visible as a thin elastic that clearly provided minimal support for the heavy equipment it contained.

"Top of the world, baby!" Blake spread his arms wide, then gripped the pole behind him with both hands. He thrust his hips forward, once, twice, three times, grinding his engorged package against the wood with deliberate, vulgar enthusiasm. "Just practicing for later. Gonna give my girl the ride of her life with all this backed-up load."

The rough wood scraped against his shorts with each thrust, catching on the fabric, pulling at threads. Blake's eyes were on the crowd below, soaking in the attention, his muzzle split in a cocky grin that showed teeth. His testicles swung between his legs, heavy and pendulous, straining visibly against the material with each movement. They were enormous, disproportionate even on his muscular frame, with the kind of size that drew eyes whether one wanted to look or not, impossible to ignore, impossible to look away from.

"Blake! Blake! Blake!" The deer started a chant, and a few others joined in.

Blake's chest swelled with pride. He pressed harder against the pole, his shaft now fully erect and creating a tent in his shorts that pointed skyward. The head pushed past his waistband, the pink tip emerging briefly before he adjusted his position. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking about! This is what a real man looks like!"

A voice from the back of the crowd cut through Blake's self-congratulatory display, loud enough to reach the top of the pole. "Yo Blake, why are you so horny today, bro?"

Blake's head swiveled toward the source, his muzzle opening to respond. "Didn't you hear me? My girlfriend's finally gonna let me score after two weeks of being forced to wait!" His weight shifted as he turned, feet pivoting on the narrow metal hooks, hands loosening their grip on the pole behind him. "I've been saving up for-"

His left foot slipped.

The hook was slick with sweat, and Blake's sneaker lost purchase. His right foot followed a split second later, and suddenly he was falling backward, arms pinwheeling. The safety harness caught him with a violent jerk, the cable snapping taut with a metallic zing that echoed through the gym. Blake's body swung forward, slamming chest-first into the pole.

But he didn't stop. The momentum carried him downward, sliding along the rough surface. The first metal hook, positioned about three feet from the top, caught the waistband of his gym shorts as he descended past it.

The fabric held for perhaps half a second before the sound of a loud, prolonged rip filled the gym. The shorts split from waistband to inseam, the hook dragging through the material like a knife through paper. Blake's hands scrabbled at the pole, trying to arrest his slide, but his palms couldn't find purchase on the splintered wood.

The shorts came away completely, yanked off his body and left hanging from the hook like a red flag of surrender. His underwear, a flimsy satiny thong more than anything, went with them, the elastic overwhelmed by the weight of what they'd been containing.

Blake's enormous scrotum swung free, released from its fabric constraints. His testicles hung massive and heavy between his legs, the sac stretched taut by their weight, the skin slightly fuzzy with golden fur. His cock was thick, uncut, and semi-erect from his earlier show, and it bobbed above them, the foreskin drawn back enough to expose the darker pink of his glans. His shaft was slick with precum, the evidence of his earlier grinding glistening on the surface.

The crowd below gasped in unison. Someone screamed. Several phones immediately lifted, cameras capturing everything.

Blake's face went through a sequence of expressions in rapid succession starting with confusion, his brow furrowing as he processed the sudden exposure. Then surprise, his eyes widening as the cool gym air hit his naked genitals and his ripped shorts slid past his face. His mouth formed a perfect O shape. "What the-"

He was still sliding. The pole rushed past his body, rough bark and exposed wood scraping against his bare thighs. His testicles, freed from support, swung and bounced with each jolt of his descent. Blake's hands finally found a grip, fingers digging into the pole, but his momentum was too great.

A large, finger thick splinter protruding from a knot in the wood caught Blake's cockhead as he slid past it.

The wood stabbed up into the underside of Blake's cock, and somehow penetrated into his urethra from below. The urethra helped channel it, but the splinter was rough, barbed with smaller fragments that caught on the delicate internal tissue as it slid through. The rough wood stretched and tore through Blake's urethra as it speared through it and emerged through the bubble of precum that was still lingering on the tip of Blake's penis.

Blake's scream was primal, a sound torn from deep in his chest. "FUCK! FUCK! WHAT-" His body convulsed, every muscle going rigid, but the slide continued. The splinter was embedded now, a fixed point that his downward motion had to move past. The wood gouged a channel through his cockhead, tearing the flesh as it scraped through. Blake's shaft bent at an unnatural angle around the splinter before the wood finally snapped, leaving a two-inch section lodged completely through his precious cock like a skewer through meat. Blood welled from the entry and exit wounds, crimson against the pink of his exposed flesh. It dripped down his shaft, warm and immediate, painting his cock in streaks of red.

"HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!" Blake's voice cracked with pain and disbelief. His face had gone pale beneath his golden fur, eyes wild and watering. "STOP THIS! MAKE IT STOP!"

The second hook, positioned roughly at the midpoint of the pole, came into contact with his descending body. But it didn't catch his harness or his skin. It caught the bottom of his scrotum.

The metal point pierced the sac just beneath and slightly behind his testicles, the tip punching through the skin with a wet, tearing sound. The hook dragged upward, narrowly missing the balls themselves, as Blake continued to slide downward. The metal carved through the scrotal tissue like scissors through silk, bifurcating it, splitting the pouch open from bottom to top, and Blake's overburdened scrotum, no longer forced to deal with the immense size of the testicles it had been created to protect, immediately pulled away, sliding to either side as the long over-stretched muscular skin retracted to safety.

Blake's testicles, no longer contained by the protective covering of his scrotum, spilled out into the open air as two massive, naked orbs hanging by their cords, the epididymis visible as ridged tissue along the back of each ball. The surface of his testicles was pale, almost white, with a faint network of blood vessels visible beneath the tunica. They were obscene in their size, each one as large as a woman's fist, heavy and pendulous and completely exposed.

The rough wood of the pole scraped directly against his naked balls as he slid. Blake's screaming intensified, reaching a pitch that seemed barely human. His legs kicked uselessly, body writhing, but the harness held him against the pole. The friction was immediate and terrible, as splintered wood dragged across the sensitive surface of his testicles, shredding into the delicate tissue and leaving microscopic tears and scratches that bloomed with pinpricks of blood.

"NO NO NO NO!" Blake's face was a mask of horror, his eyes rolling back, teeth bared in a grimace of agony. "NOT MY BALLS! NOT MY BALLS!"

The third hook rushed up to meet him. Blake's left hand shot down, an instinctive attempt to protect his groin, but he was too slow.

The metal point speared directly into his right testicle.

The hook entered the bottom of the ball and traveled upward, piercing through the center mass. The testicle compressed around the metal, the internal structures - seminiferous tubules, rete testis, the network of tissue that produced his ninety-ninth percentile sperm count - were crushed and punctured. The hook burst up through the top of the testicle and continued upward, lifting the impaled ball up along its length until the widest part of the hook caught on the entry wound.

Blake's descent... stopped.

His entire body weight, all two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle, fur and oversized balls, hung suspended by the cords to his right testicle. The spermatic cord stretched, pulled taut like a rubber band at its breaking point. The cord was designed to support the weight of the testicle itself, perhaps twelve, maybe fourteen ounces. Not this. Never this.

Blake's scream cut off, replaced by a high-pitched keening sound. His body spasmed, legs kicking in midair, hands clawing at the pole, trying to find a hook to grasp that were all somehow just out of reach. Somehow, impossibly, the cord held. His testicle stretched upward, distorted into an elongated oval by the tension, the hook embedded deep in its tissue.

For three seconds, Blake hung there.

His face, visible to the stunned crowd below, cycled through expressions of pure agony. Tears streamed from his eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream, his entire body trembling. But then something shifted in his features, as he realized he had stopped - stable, even. There was a flicker of something that might have been pride, or perhaps delusion brought on by shock.

"See?" Blake's voice was strained, barely above a whisper, but a few people in the crowd heard it. "See how... how powerful... my virility is? My balls are... so powerful... they can... can hold me up..."

As if to taunt him, his spermatic cord snapped.

The sound was a wet, fibrous tearing, like a thick rope ripping under tension. The blood vessels within the cord ruptured, spraying arterial blood in a fine mist. The vas deferens, the nerve bundle, the cremasteric muscle, the whole shebang, came apart in a catastrophic failure of tissue.

Blake's right testicle remained on the hook, impaled and abandoned. The ragged stump of the cord dangled from his groin, spurting blood with each panicked beat of his heart. The testicle itself swung gently on its metal perch, a grotesque trophy marking the site of the castration.

Blake fell again, staring incredulously as his ball flew up past his face, the dripping cord slapping under his chin as he slid past.

His scream returned, louder than before, a sound of pure anguish and disbelief. "NO! NO! MY BALL! GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK!" His hands reached toward his lost ball, trying to catch it, instead of trying to protect his remaining ball. Blunder. 

The fourth hook rose to meet him.

This one caught his remaining left testicle dead center. The metal point entered the underside, but rather than spearing out the other side, it slammed the nut up against the underside of Blake's crotch, with all of the impact a full fledged football punt. All of Blake's falling weight slammed down on top of it, compressing the swollen, pent up nut against the spearing metal with a force too great for the tissue to withstand.

Blake's left testicle exploded.

The tunica albuginea split apart, the internal pressure too much for the membrane. Seminiferous tubules burst outward in a spray of tissue. Backed-up sperm - two weeks' worth of production, if Blake was to be believed - fountained from the ruptured ball in a thick, white splattering release. The ejaculate mixed with blood and testicular tissue, creating a grotesque cascade that drooled and splattered down the pole and onto the gym floor below.

The testicle collapsed on itself, deflating like a punctured water balloon. What remained impaled on the hook was was a loose, saggy, emptied blob of organ skin and greasy hunks tissue. It's innards were... everywhere else. 

Blake's scream had become a continuous wail, his body convulsing in the harness. His face was contorted in agony, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open so wide the pink of his palate was visible. Drool hung from his lips. His hands clutched down at his ruined groin, but there was nothing left of his balls to hold, just blood and torn skin and the ragged stumps of his spermatic cords. so he was left clutching his wounded, half-erect cock.

His descent continued one final time, the last few feet toward the base of the pole. A green, arrow-shaped sign, a decorative element welded to a metal post at the bottom, pointing upward with its message "CLIMB ON BOARD!" rushed up to meet him.

Blake landed ass-first on the arrow's point.

The metal penetrated between his buttocks, spreading them, pressing deep into the cleft. The tip of the arrow found his anus and pushed through the resistance, embedding itself half a foot into his rectum. The angle was perfect, as Blake's weight jammed the tip of the arrow directly into Blake's prostate, the golfball-sized gland that had been building pressure for two weeks.

The stimulation was immediate and involuntary.

Blake's body, despite the catastrophic trauma, despite the shock and blood loss and unimaginable pain, responded to the pressure. His prostate contracted, squeezing, sending signals along nerve pathways that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with mechanical response.

He was still holding his cock in his hands - all that he had left, really, even if it was speared through by the massive corroded splinter - and it jerked upwards. The shaft pulsed once, twice, three times. And then Blake ejaculated.

The semen that was still contained in his body tried to from his urethra, forced out by the prostatic contractions. It mixed with the blood flowing from his pierced glans, creating a pink stream that oozed in rhythmic gushes out the bottom of his cock where the splinter impaled it and out the end of his dick, coating the tip of the wooden spear. His cock pulsed again, another thick rush of cum oozing out, then another. The orgasm was entirely mechanical, his body executing a program it had no power to stop.

Blake's stared dumbly down at his cock as it throbbed and squirted in his paws, confusion mixing with the pain. "No... no wait... why is this happening?" His hips bucked involuntarily, driving the arrow deeper, causing his prostate to contract harder. More semen spurted out, his body attempting to collect more seed from balls that no longer existed.

The crowd around stood frozen, phones still recording, faces shocked into silence. Then someone in the back made a nervous, disbelieving sound, that turned into a laugh. Someone else joined in. Within seconds, a ripple of laughter spread through the group.

"Holy shit, he's cumming!"

"Dude got off from being neutered!"

"This is the most insane thing I've ever seen!"

Blake's face flushed deep red beneath the pale shock, his ears pinning back. The humiliation crashed over him like a wave, even through the agony. His body continued its betrayal, his cock giving one final pulse, ejecting the last of his backed-up load onto the gym floor below.

"I'm not... cumming! I didn't like that!" He tried to stammer, his hands slipping over his cock as he tried to hide his ejaculation from the others. "I just lost my BALLS!"

The deer with the phone zoomed in on Blake's face, capturing every detail of his shame and suffering. "Yeah, and now you're cumming to it. Yeah, this is definitely going viral."

Blake's hands fell to his sides, his head lolling backwards. Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with semen and the scattered remnants of his destroyed testicle. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his body trembling in shock. The arrow remained embedded in his ass, his ruined cock still erect and dripping, and above him on the pole, his right testicle swung gently on its hook like a gruesome ornament. A drip of slime from the remains of his left testicle fell onto his forehead with a soft splat.

Someone finally had the presence of mind to shout, "Call 911!"

But Blake barely heard it. His eyes stared upward at the balls dangling tauntingly out of reach, as his fingers felt up the ruined groin between his legs. All he could feel was the emptiness where his pride had hung just minutes before. His mouth moved, forming words that came out barely audible: "My balls... my balls... I need them back..."

The fox from his earlier entourage had her phone out, but she wasn't filming. She was on a call, her voice shaking. "Yes, Bulge Gym on Fourth Street. There's been an accident. A really, really bad accident. Yeah, another one. You need to send someone right now."

Blake's head lifted slightly, his gaze finding the crowd. His eyes, glazed with shock, moved from face to face. Some were horrified, some laughing, many filming. The shame in his expression deepened, his muzzle twisting in a grimace that had nothing to do with physical pain.

He had wanted to be watched. He had wanted to be admired. He had gotten his wish.

Just not the way he'd imagined.