That Familiar Weakness

[Erica Walo]

It was the happiest day of Yin’s life, as far as she could remember. She was normally known to be demure and reserved, that tall and slender Chinese girl who dressed in all black haute couture, with her dark gossamer hair—who drew all sorts of attention with her serene and mysterious beauty, something in-between a mystic and a fashionista. Would-be admirers would be downcast today, however, as she was practically exuberant, walking hand-in-hand with her partner and lover, nearly skipping on the way home from the fertility center. 

Yin and Paul, her newly-wedded husband, had been trying to no avail for over half a year now, to no success. Yin could scarcely believe it, as she herself had always kept up to date on her reproductive health, and was perfectly fertile, and as for Paul… Paul was a bull. A veritable giant of a man, well over six-feet tall, and yet still with almost boyish Eurasian pop-star looks. For all his pretty boy tender beauty, he was a fount of testosterone, and, Yin was proud to say, more than enough in the manhood department. 

***

Yin remembered a month earlier, the night prior to Paul’s sperm test, gently sliding down her husband’s trousers from his compact and slender waist, and gasping in astonishment at what awaited her. It had not been the first time, as Paul had been the boy to take her virginity, but each time brought her the impulse to gasp. He had a wonderful dick, that had given her many hours of pleasure with his stallion-like stamina—but it was his testicles that were the true star. They were smooth and well-groomed, the right one ever so slightly larger than the left, each the hefty size of perfect chicken eggs, slightly pink with a healthy coloration. 

Yin knew, even then, that there was no way Paul was infertile, there was no way those immaculate gonads could be causing him to shoot blanks. Nevertheless, the night before Paul would be depositing his seed into a vial for testing, Yin had gently taken his cock, standing proudly centering his well-muscled thighs, between her delicate, plump lips, gently kneaded his—no, their—family jewels with her princess-like fingers, stimulating them, just till the cusp of milking, but not letting him release. He would have a plentiful load, Yin knew, to deposit for tomorrow. 

***

She snapped out of her pleasant memories, returning to the present day joy. Paul’s test results had come back, and their fertility specialist had happily confirmed that not only was Paul fertile, but that he was well above average in terms of production and motility. Their specialist, a voluptuous blonde who had made Yin slightly jealous in her proportions, chalked their current failures down simply to colossal bad luck, and that it would happen any day now. 

“With nuts like that,” she had said, slightly more forward than what the couple had imagined, “it should be one shot, one fertilization, if you take my meaning! Why don’t you two set up a… personal appointment later in the comforts of your bedroom, and give it a go? I bet it’ll take this time for sure.”

That had been Yin’s plan all along, and she had intended for it to be tonight. 

No, not tonight. This afternoon. As soon as they got home. She was at her most fertile, she knew, and at her absolute horniest. She had been repressed and sheltered growing up, but she was far more liberal now, and with far dirtier thoughts. She couldn’t help but fantasize, during the short walk home, about laying her slender body over top Paul’s more substantial form, feeling every inch of his sun-tanned, responsive, and powerful body, the way he could just envelop her entirely in his masculine power, his huge-biceped wingspan. 

She felt herself growing wet at the thought of burying her face into his massive pectorals, savoring the musk of his manly aroma—knowing that, all the while, her Herculean man was going wild at her touch, that handsome boy of hers, that confident and powerful, yet oh so tender and shy boy. Her hand would reach down, and stroke his quickly hardening cock, would fondle his testicles, stimulate them with tender massages as she would then begin to ride him, to scream, to hear him moan and whimper in that adorable way of his, as she milked him dry. As she finally helped her beautiful boy provide her with a child. 

“Oh, Paul, my beautiful man, I wanted you to know…” Yin stopped to face him, knowing that, at his height, he could catch a perfect view of her cleavage, her small, yet wonderfully shapely breasts. She wondered if he was fantasizing about enveloping each one with his powerful hands, just like she would, moaning as her palms gently stimulated her areolas. “I’m not wearing a bra today… and I’m wearing that thong you so love to see me in…”

Yin and Paul embraced as Yin’s giant of a lover stammered, his thick erection poking at her, his hands tastefully at her waist. With a mischievous glint, Yin looked around the currently empty streets. 

“You can reach down, if you want, slip your fingers past the string,” Yin whispered, sultrily, “I want you to feel my ass.” 

She was proud of her ass, Yin was. She had not been naturally gifted with ample assets, and it had been countless hours of gym-work and researching optimal nutrition that had led to her burgeoning, tantalizing curves. Shyly, although they had made love together already countless times, Paul slid his hands down her waistband, fondling each of her ass-cheeks with his mammoth hands. Still pressed together, Yin could hear Paul whimper as he caressed her bottom, clearly desperate for release.

For the three weeks before they had received the results, Yin had insisted that Paul remain in torturous abstinence—she had reasoned that, if Paul was fertile, that he could spend all his stored up seed in celebration, and surely maximize his chances of impregnating her. She had other motives, to be certain. Yes she would miss the feel of her lover boy’s loads seeping from inside of her, but she was curious to see just how much she could coax out of Paul’s swollen, lust-throbbing testicles.

“I… I love you so much Yin,” Paul said, earnestly, causing her to fall in love all over again. He was a romantic, even when carnal desire overtook him, “I love how you feel in my arms, and my hands. I’m always going to be here to protect you. Because I’m your man.”

He was, Yin realized, suddenly emotional as well as lustful. He was her big, strong, powerful and yet sensitive man. She had a troubled past, one that she had long since buried and kept there, and it was only now that she remembered this, in this happy moment, remembered that times had been hard for her once, but now she had her tether, her anchor. Her hulk of a man, powerful enough to destroy, but sensitive, and kind, and sweet enough to simply protect her. To choose to love her. Forever and always.

“I hope your refractory period’s still as brief as I remember it,” Yin joked, “because when we walk through that door, I’m putting you and those balls to work, my darling sweet—”

“Oh, god,” a familiar, haunting voice said. A cunning woman’s voice, “talk about a new level of PDA. Gross.” 

In response, a giggle, another familiar sound. Yin, transported back from her throes of love and lust, suddenly felt a smallness. One she had not felt since the last years of high school, and her early years at university. A smallness, a familiar weakness, a desolate helplessness. She turned towards the interlopers she hadn’t noticed, barely sensing Paul’s hands frantically remove themselves from her bottom. 

It was Kim and Tiffany. The girls who had plagued her coming-of-age years, who had always made her feel so insecure and insignificant. They were Chinese-Vietnamese girls, girls whose families knew her family. They were beautiful women, fashionable and dressed head-to-toe in luxury no doubt paid for by other men. They were tanned from their years of raving, caramel skin the backdrop for their sultry expressions, their plump lips and immaculately cosmetically altered features. Their doubtlessly enhanced breasts threatened to burst from their crop-tops. 

They had always been beautiful, even before the procedures and the pampering. They had been beautiful, and popular, not like Yin. Yin had been a modest girl, and an ugly duckling, a late bloomer. She had dressed poorly, and years of bullying had often caused her to neglect even her grooming. While she was certainly at, if not surpassing, their level of beauty now, but she hadn’t been, and Kim and Tiffany had made her suffer for it. 

“Wow, Yin,” Kim said, eyeing her preposterously, “so do you like… have sex now or something?”   

Tiffany snorted. “It’s fucking gross, if you ask me. Girl finally stops being ugly and lets guys just grope her in public now. Making up for all those lost years, I bet.”

Except Tiffany, who had been the worst of the pair, had been responsible for so many of those last years. Not only because of how she had impacted her confidence and self-esteem and mental health, ruining her ability to interact with others until adulthood, but because of what she had done to sweet Tristan. Oh, sweet Tristan. Yin could feel herself tearing up involuntarily, the memories of a tragedy resurfacing. 

***

Tristan Yan had been her first. Well, he would have been her first. He was sweet, maybe overly so. He was a scrawny, nerdy boy. He wrote her poetry, excitedly texting his cheesy but earnest and sweet words to her after getting home from extracurriculars. They had hung out in front of Yin’s locker all the time, much to the consternation of Tiffany, who had always had to impatiently interrupt their shy and nervous efforts at flirting to get to her own locker, which was next door.

But he had been the first boy to see her naked, during their freshman year together at University, and the first boy he ever saw naked. They had shyly undressed when Yin was home alone one day in her dorm. Yin knew, from all the videos she had curiously seen online, that Tristan had been less than impressive. His penis had been roughly average, but his testicles had been strangely small, as if he had been short on testosterone, or perhaps they had not descended properly. Nevertheless, he was sweet, and Yin had feelings for him, and he might have been her first, had she not chickened out that day. 

“Okay, my beautiful darling,” Tristan had said, in a terrible impression of a suave man that Yin nevertheless found endearing in her infatuation, “I’d never force you. But one day, when you’re ready, I just can’t wait to make love to you.”

She had been won over, but how gentle he was. “Your birthday, baby,” Yin had said that last part tentatively, nervous, so inexperienced, “It’s next week… next week… we could do it. I’d want to.” Even as those words let her lips, Yin had convinced herself she was in love with this scrawny, adorable man. That she wanted to marry him, to have a family with him—convinced, surely, that even with testicles that small, that he still had functional seed to give. 

But they had never gotten the chance. It had happened over something so stupid. So avoidable. It had been Tiffany again, who always took the chance to torment her whenever they met on campus grounds. To remind her of her smallness, her ugliness. 

“Look who it is,” Tiffany had remarked, as Kim and her encountered Yin and Tristan, walking hand in hand like an enamored couple. “It’s No-Tits Yin and… wow, judging by that terrible build, dick-less whoever-the-fuck.”

“Oh god,” Kim laughed, “do you think they like… fuck? It probably sounds like two wooden boards crashing into each other.”

They had laughed at her then, and traded further abuses, until Tristan had stepped in between them, placing Yin tenderly behind him, and storming up to the pair with rage in his unconvincing, effete features. Yin had remembered loving him for it then, but could not forget how unprotected she felt, nonetheless. Tristan was so sweet, but he was such a small and slender boy, and the presence of Kim and Tiffany was domineering. 

“What the fuck are you gonna do?” Tiffany had said defiantly, proudly with her chest out, offering Tristan a view of her cleavage that he, with all his then still-existent hormones, could not help but indulge in. 

“Oh my god… oh my god Tiffany I think you’re giving him a boner!” 

Yin had felt a sinking feeling then, because not only was Kim right, but also Tiffany marched forward to meet Tristan, her hands held suspiciously behind her back—with Kim next to her, seemingly slipping something into her hands. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you or anything,” Tristan had stammered, blushing, “but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect—”

It had all happened so fast. One moment Yin had felt her heart swell at Tristan’s declaration of protection, his chivalry, relief that maybe he had what it took after all to safeguard her from her two nemeses. Only then had she seen it, the curvatures of steel that ringed Tiffany’s hands—the brass knuckles that her biker boyfriend Vo often flaunted around in the campus parking lots. She watched in horror as Tiffany’s toned arm cocked back, as her brass-fist launched forward explosively, just under Tristan’s erect member, the knuckles sinking viciously into his reproductive organs. 

Yin had shuddered, as she could have sworn she heard a squick sound as those knuckles seemed to press deeper and deeper into Tristan’s manhood, forcing the slender boy to open his mouth into a saliva-leaking gape, bent over double like a folding chair. She had barely understood what was happening, but Yin heard herself scream noooo! as Tristan puked onto the ground, as if expelling the remnants of his testicles from his mouth. 

Like a helpless boy after a sports accident, Tristan, hunched over, turned to face Yin, retreated towards her as if she—in all her weakness—could protect her, could be his salvation. He moaned and moaned a weak, infantile moan, his hands feeling around inside his underwear, as he looked up desperately to Yin, as if she could undo the damage dealt to him. 

Tristan had met Yin’s eyes, tearful, “My…. my… MY BALLS…”

Tiffany had came up from behind Tristan, wickedly. Her hands reaching for the waist of his jeans. “Now! Let’s see… the damage!”

 

She pulled his pants down, her face in a kind of sexual ecstasy, as she curiously eyed the poor boy’s package. Yin had wanted to look away, but she had not—some part of her perhaps thought it would be a betrayal not to witness the remains, the remnants of the manhood of the boy who said he loved her. 

It was horrible. Where once his testicles had simply appeared atrophied and small, now they could no longer be identified at all, in that quickly purpling, but empty looking scrotum. His penis now, erect just moments ago, began to shrink, growing weak and limp and, Yin’s lips quivered as the thought crossed her mind, smaller than she had remembered it, that day they had so tenderly undressed before each other. Some cruel part of her, that she hated herself for, had thought even then that his penis would never, in its new state, bring her pleasure. 

Tristan began to mumble incoherently, as tears came to his eyes, weeping in pain and realization of his lost reproductive and sexual future. He would fall into a severe medical crisis, his testosterone reduced to nothing, his mind falling into depression. For all the (now certainly platonic) comfort Yin had offered, it had not helped—he dropped out a month later, foregoing a promising full scholarship and academic career, never to be heard from again, the course of his life irrevocably altered. 

“Have fun watching his dick die!” Kim and Tiffany had said, in harmonized sing-song, as they left. 

***

Yin exited that terrible reverie, and found herself clinging to Paul, half-hiding her body behind his. She had become confident since her beauty blossomed, since she had cultivated it, styling herself well, until she was absolutely model-like. But now, she found that her courage and confidence were wilting—and she was nervous, too, clinging to Paul for safety. Paul who was so big and strong, but yet… if something were to happen… anything…

“Wait,” Kim mused, suspiciously, “what’s even along this road? We were just messing around… oh my gosh… I think these two lovebirds are coming from the fertility clinic?”

Tiffany grinned. “Kids? With how much of a late-bloomer Yin is, I bet she doesn’t have much to offer in the genes department, unlike this stud over here. How did you even get him, Yin? I mean, you might not be ugly anymore, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, he’s way too good for—oh, oh no, is he shooting blanks? Are those big hulk muscles hiding a pair of useless, raisin nuts? Is that how you managed to snag him?”

“No!” Yin heard herself roar, astonishing herself. She had remembered Tristan, and the injustice done to that sweet boy, the way his life had been ruined by Tiffany’s cruel fist. She would stand up for herself, even though the fear was quickly returning. 

“He’s my beautiful man, and he’s perfectly healthy and fertile,” Yin forced herself to continue, her confidence slowly gaining, as all those years of bullying and abuse resurfaced, and Yin found a wicked part of her with which to gain her revenge, “not like,” her eyes glinted, “Vo, or am I remembering wrong? I heard that stupid biker sweetheart of yours got into an accident, rammed into his own bike crotch-first, and now he can never get it up again. I’m surprised he ever could for a trashy bitch like you, fake tits.”

Kim and Tiffany went awfully silent, and suddenly Yin was on a roll. She was satisfied. She was winning. Of course she was. Her life was brilliant. She was more beautiful than them now. She had a beautiful husband, who was going to give her his children. Meanwhile Kim was a legendary multiple-time divorcee, and Tiffany was stuck at home with her ruined-dick boyfriend. 

“You two made my life a living hell,” Yin said, and found that her serenity had returned to her, “you crippled my confidence and sense of self-worth for years… you… you took the first boy I ever fell for… sweet Tristan and you… and you ruined him, you made me cry into my pillow for years… but I have the last laugh now. You two are alone, and I have a beautiful man, who’s going to give me a beautiful family, and we’re going to make eachother so happy—what is Vo gonna do for you, Tiff?”

She should have seen herself, Yin. The same mischievous grin that she had often seen from Tiffany, was now plastered all over her face. This was justice. This was for her, for her past self, her cowardly self, and for poor, sweet, Tristan. 

Tiffany glowered. “You bitch,” she snarled, marching forward, with the same intensity she had once marched towards Tristan with.

Only it wasn’t Tristan that met her path. It was the hulking form of Paul, her lover—who was sweet like Tristan, but so different in every other way. It felt cruel to measure Tristan against him, but it made Yin swoon to think about Paul, his compact and powerful build against Tristan’s scrawny weakness, his oh so evident masculinity and manhood as opposed to Tristan’s well… never particularly impressive parts. Yin understood now, triumphant. Paul was more than enough for the likes of them. Tristan had just been unlucky to not be so blessed with strength, or endowed with more resilient testicles.

“What the fuck are you going to do?” Paul said, his soft gentlemanly nature discarded, faced with the woman he now figured had been the source of so much of Yin’s torments, her insecurities. He would avenge her. 

Yin was wet. She had never seen that side of Paul, but it made her want him like never before—and she had already wanted him so desperately. She knew, certain in her heart of hearts, that the sex they would be having after this triumph would be positively feral, that she’d let her rub and caress and squeeze and fondle every part of her, scream as loudly for him as she could, that Paul’s masculinity would not fail, that he would surely impregnate her on this afternoon. He was her protector, and she loved him and—

“Such a shame. I really do think you would’ve provided such nice genes.” Tiffany said as she met Paul’s eyes, with something approaching pity. 

With mighty force, Tiffany kicked up, and it was only then, for all the years they had known each other, that it occurred to Yin that Tiffany had the leg flexibility of a cheerleader. Those powerful leg muscles, so strong compared to her who, even in her new active lifestyle, could never match her musculature. She watched as her right leg bypassed Paul’s thighs, the rough tip of her pointy boot impacting directly with his manhood. Yin, earlier having fantasized about Paul’s testicles slapping against her in the throes of coitus, now had an image in her mind that mirrored the reality, her lover’s low-hanging, substantial balls sent flying upward, each sex organ bouncing, momentarily, above his penis. 

Paul’s face, oh sweet Paul’s lovely face, contorted into sheer agony, as his delicate light features went red, as his boyish good looks twisted into a buffoonish, moronic incoherence. His giant hands flew to his package, only Tiffany would not stop there. Yin realized that there was a real vindictive darkness to her now, that had been sparked by her comments regarding Vo’s impotence. 

Oh, she thought, nonsensical from shock, I probably should book another sperm test, huh?

“Sorry handsome,” Tiffany glared, removing Paul’s hands, which were cupping his wounded testicles, “I’m not done. Blame Yin.”

And with that, Tiffany brought Paul closer to her, the giant man seemingly reduced in stature as he was bent over, nearabouts her chest. Then, with gruesome velocity, Tiffany sent her knee into Paul’s groin, empowered by her rage, those sexual frustrations with Vo that she wanted to impose upon Yin’s life, that uppity bitch who thought she had it good now. She could feel that handsome stud writhe in his arms, and gasp and moan, and still Tiffany did not stop, continued kneeing him again and again, until she was certain that if Yin wanted children, it would probably have to wait until the next life—until she felt a squicky sound, something like mush. 

“Nooooo!” Yin heard herself screaming, her confidence suddenly gone, her timidity and her fear returning to her. “Please… oh god please… please stop kneeing his balls… my kids… my kids….”

In the background, Kim had hunched over in sympathy pains, her hands crossing over balls that she didn’t have. In truth, she really was sympathetic. She knew Paul, although doubted he remembered her. They had hooked up once, years back, and Kim had remembered his stunning good looks. What a shame. She thought she might have been able to steal her from Yin. She had always wanted to suck his cock again. She bit her lip. It looked like that ship had sailed. 

It seemed like eternity, Tiffany kneeing him, as Yin—reduced to a shell, did not dare intervene— Paul helpless, certain that his testicles, his entire sex life, were being reduced to a consistency somewhat akin to toilet paper dissolving in water. He had been in abstinence, at Yin’s teasing suggestion, for the past three weeks, and it occurred to him that it had backfired tremendously. His balls were extra tender, and as Tiffany impacted them against his pelvis, he thought he could feel the last of his seed—for surely she was doing irreparable damage to his once perfect eggs—leaking from him, pleasurelessly.

When, finally, Tiffany released Paul, she shoved the hunched, agonized man’s lower back, Yin’s beautiful, beautiful lover zombie-walking, almost identically to Tristan, back towards his traumatized wife. That big strong man looked up, and his face, for all his strong-jawed handsomeness, resembled Tristan’s pitiful self. His powerful hands reached into his pants—doubtlessly Paul wished they could be where they were not but moments ago, against Yin’s ass—fishing for what remained of his once copious masculinity. His eyes met Yin’s, and Yin felt such great sorrow at his gorgeous, watering, devastated eyes. 

“Now,” Tiffany approached as she had done once before, this time with more venom than the mirth of years ago, “let’s see that damage, bitch.” 

She pulled Paul’s pants down, and Yin’s breath caught as she surveyed what was left, the mess in between Paul’s powerful thighs. She tried desperately to tune out Paul’s wail, as his hands attempted to massage his naked… ruins, crying: “My… oh god, Yin… my… balls…” No, Yin thought sadly, not balls. Despite how different the two had been to begin with, the right side of Paul’s scrotum now appeared like Yin’s memory of Tristan’s, after his injury; purpling and empty. 

His right testicle was done for, Yin knew, but he had been more fortunate than Tristan had—the minor side-effect of Paul’s spent seed dribbling onto his hands aside. His left had not escaped damage, but it had not been ruined, swollen as it was, the sack filling swiftly with escaped matter and liquid. A rupture, but not totally destroyed. Yin could save him. Yin had to move now, to bring him to the ER so that it could be repaired, and then, after they could schedule another—

No. There was no point, Yin knew, with a calm she had not expected. There was no point to another sperm test. The realization that Paul would never be able to give her his children did not break her the way she had expected. Rather, she had reached a new kind of maturity: knew now that whether it be Paul, or Tristan, she could not simply sink into the idyllic safety of another man. 

Maybe they would adopt. Maybe she would find it to be a deal-breaker, and leave Paul for another man. But right now, it was up to her. She had to do her part to save Paul’s remaining testicle. 

“Well, Yin,” Tiffany said, grinning as she turned away with a wave, “good luck with lefty.” 

Yin knew, from then on, that she had to be the strong one now.  

   

[Rich]

😳 oof 😬💦😵