I don’t start gentle.
Not with him.
Not anymore.
He’s already naked, kneeling on the concrete floor of the basement with his wrists cuffed behind his back and a thick leather collar locked around his throat. His cock is half-hard from the anticipation alone. Stupid boy. He still thinks this is going to end with pleasure.
I crouch in front of him, take his face in one hand, and make him look at me.
“You know the rules,” I say. “You don’t get to close your legs. You don’t get to pull away. You take every single kick, slap, and squeeze I decide to give you. And if you come from the pain like the sick little bitch you are, I’ll make the next round twice as bad. Clear?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he whispers.
I smile and stand up.
The first kick is straight into his balls. Not playful. Full force with the top of my bare foot. The impact is solid and wet-sounding. He folds forward with a choked scream, forehead almost hitting the floor. I grab the collar, yank his head back up, and kick him again in the exact same place before he can recover.
He howls.
“Louder,” I tell him, and drive my knee up hard between his legs. His whole body jerks. Tears are already streaming down his face. His cock has gone completely soft, the balls drawn up tight and already starting to swell.
I crouch again, take both of them in one hand, and squeeze. Hard. Harder. I dig my nails in and twist while he thrashes and sobs.
“These belong to me,” I snarl in his face. “I can crush them if I want. I can kick them until you puke. And you’re going to thank me for every second of it.”
“Th-thank you, Mistress—fuck—please—”
I slap his cock with an open hand, then backhand his balls. The sound is sharp and ugly. He tries to double over again. I shove him upright with my foot on his chest and start a steady rhythm of kicks—left, right, left—each one landing square on the soft, vulnerable flesh between his legs. His screams bounce off the concrete walls. Spit runs down his chin. His thighs are shaking so hard he can barely stay upright.
I pause only long enough to spit on his ruined balls and smear it around with my toes.
“Look at the mess you’re making,” I say, almost sweetly. “Crying like a little girl because I decided to play with your worthless nuts. Open your legs wider.”
He forces them apart. I reward him with a vicious upward kick that lifts him slightly off his knees. He vomits a little onto the floor. I don’t care. I grab a fistful of his hair, force his face up, and slap him across the mouth.
“Clean that up with your tongue when we’re done. Right now you focus on taking what I give you.”
I switch to my hands. I cup his balls, lift them, and smash my knee into them again and again. Each impact draws a higher, more broken sound from his throat. His cock is twitching uselessly against his thigh, leaking clear fluid from pure pain. I wrap my fingers around it and squeeze the head until he shrieks, then go back to crushing his balls in my fist.
“You love this,” I tell him, voice low and cruel. “You love when I destroy these. You get hard from the idea of me kicking you until you can’t walk. Admit it.”
“I—I love it—fuck—I love when you hurt them—” he sobs.
“Good.”
I stand, plant one foot on his thigh to keep him open, and start stomping. Not full body weight yet—just heavy, deliberate stomps straight down onto his balls. The wet, meaty sound of each impact mixes with his screams. After the fifth stomp he collapses sideways. I let him hit the floor, then plant my bare foot on his exposed balls and press down slowly, grinding.
He thrashes. I put more weight on it.
“Stay still or I break them for real.”
He freezes, shaking, tears and snot everywhere. I grind my heel in small circles, watching his face contort. When I finally lift my foot his balls are dark red and visibly swollen.
I crouch one last time, take them in both hands, and squeeze until my arms shake. His scream is raw and continuous. I hold the pressure for a full ten seconds before I let go.
He collapses fully, curling onto his side, whimpering.
I sit on the floor beside him, stroke his sweat-soaked hair almost gently, and speak in a soft voice.
“You did well. You took everything. And because you did, I’m going to let you stay there for a while and feel every pulse of pain while I decide whether you get ice… or another round.”
He nods weakly against the concrete, still crying.
I stay right there, one hand resting lightly on his abused balls so he can feel the ownership, and I watch him shake.
This is the part I love most.
Not the kicking.
The quiet after, when he knows I could start again at any second… and he’ll still spread his legs for me.