A Cozy & Cheerful Ballbusting & Cbusting Social Network
I thought you migh tlike to know how I discovered the sexual power of ballbusting.
You need to understand one thing right from the start. I bust balls because of what it does for me. I don’t mind if the guy gets something out of it, but that’s just incidental. I’m not doing it for his benefit.
This is getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to the beginning.
I didn’t really understand what a guy busting his balls meant until one dull Saturday in October. My brother was in his final year and had been selected to play for the school’s First XI soccer team. Our mother told me to go along to support him; I notice she didn’t go.
The pitch was muddy from the recent rain and all the players were soon splattered in mud. I don’t remember how well my brother played, because I spent my time watching one of the forwards on the visiting team. He was tall and slim and wearing tight shorts – the fashion at the time – that showed off his thighs. They were hairy and still brown with his summer tan. Whenever he ran, which was a lot, I just watched his thigh muscles rippling. I was down near our goal, because that was where he spent most of his time. Early in the second half he was running towards me to challenge for the ball when he slipped and slid. I think we both realised at the same moment that he was heading straight for the corner post. His legs were splayed and he was out of control in the mud. He couldn’t change direction and didn’t have time even to get his hands to his crotch before he crashed into the post. The look on his face as he saw what was about to happen to him was one of horror and panic. He cried out and the officials rushed over to him. It took a while before he was on his feet again and he didn’t seem to have much energy for the rest of the game. I lost interest in him, because I was more concerned about what was happening to me. Beneath my thick skirt and inside my woollen tights and schoolgirl’s sensible knickers, there was a tingling in my groin that I had never experienced before. For the first time in my life I had become sexually aroused.
My first attack on a guy happened when I was in my second year at university and I found out that my boyfriend was shagging my best friend. I didn’t care that he wasn’t being faithful, neither was I. It was the fact that he was doing it with my best friend. I wanted to punish her as much as him. The whole incident is a blur in my memory. I just remember seeing them at the bottom of a garden and storming down the lawn, determined that she wasn’t going to have the pleasure of him that night. He saw me coming and turned to face me. As soon as I was in range, I just lashed out with my foot taking him high in the nuts. Then I walked away. I didn’t see what happened, but I was told he was taken to hospital. He can’t have suffered any permanent damage, because he married her and they had two kids. Mind you, she’s such a tart that even she probably doesn’t know who their fathers are.
My real career, if you can call it that, began with John. He was in his 30s when we met and already a successful lawyer. I was still a student doing my masters. He was the love of my life. I knew that then and I still know it. So why did I treat him so mean? I guess I was all messed up with my feelings and whatever I was taking at the time. I would go to parties with him and then go off with someone else. I would get my friends to tell him I wanted him to come round and then deny it when he arrived. I would throw him out and then try to entice him back. My ball crushing began one Sunday morning when we were in bed.
I take a long time to get to climax. I need a lot of work on my breasts and then a long hard pummelling. He had the skill for the breast work and the stamina for the pussy work. It was a few months after we first met when it happened. He’d been working on me for about half an hour, stroking and massaging my tits, sucking and nibbling at my nipples. He dipped his finger in to check that I was ready. I watched him as he prepared to mount me. His slender white legs were stretched over my thick black thigh, his cock was erect and his balls were pulled up tight to his crotch. I just thought, wouldn’t it be funny to crack his nuts, so that’s what I did. I brought my knee up sharp. What happened next can only have taken a second or two. It plays in my mind in slow motion. I felt my knee hitting bone, barely aware of the tissue crushed between the two. Then there was silence for what seemed ages, but could only have been a fraction of a second. His face changed from excitement through surprise to agony. He gasped and collapsed to one side cradling his balls and moaning. I was thrilled, but I hadn’t expected to become so aroused. I needed him to finish me, but he couldn’t. As he lay curled up beside me I grabbed his cock and started pulling, shouting at him to get on and finish me. He’d gone soft of course and was no use. I tried rubbing myself, but I’ve never once got off that way. I kept kneading and pulling until eventually he went hard enough for me to get it inside me. He just lay there as I rode him; it was obvious from his face that he was still in pain.
After that, I never hit him during sex. I caught him just afterwards a few times, but my favourite was to get him when there were people about. Once I kneed him on the doorstep of his parents’ house. Another time just as we were going into an office party. Once at my flat when he had visitors I caught him in the hallway. He’d be in agony, but he had to try to mask it. I’d go off across the room in order to watch how he coped. Sometimes he’d make an excuse and go the bathroom. Mostly he had to stand there trying not to look as if he just had his balls knocked into his belly.
The strange thing is that he never complained and never asked me why I did it. But he did try to avoid it if he could. So I had to catch him unawares. I would engage him in conversation about mundane things. Didn’t his parents garden look lovely? Could he bring some more wine? Then I’d knee him as he listened or as he turned towards me. It had to be my knee. It was easy to catch him with a chop or a punch, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying for me.
My all-time favourite occasion was at a wedding. The disco was coming to an end; the DJ had put on slow numbers and the lights were down. I was in high heels and a short dress that barely covered my crotch, an ideal combination for maximum leverage. I swayed with the music and rubbed myself against him. I guess the only thing in his mind was what he would do to me when we got back to our room. The only thing in my mind was timing when to crush his balls. I waited until he was nibbling at my neck and fondling my ass, then I slid my thigh between his legs and let him get used to it being there. I was too close to him to get in a killer shot, which was my preferred technique with him, but I rammed my thigh as high and as hard as I could and just kept grinding away. He collapsed against me and groaned. I was holding him up as we swayed. If anyone noticed, they’d have thought he had just dumped his load. We had fantastic sex later. We always did; I was always horny and I guess he had something to prove.
In the end, I threw him out once too often and he didn’t come back. I was now in my 30s and alone. And worst of all, I had only myself to blame. It was a long time before Gamba came along, but that is another story for another post if you're interested.