Chapter 2

The oppressive eroticism cooking in Wally's tight nut-cauldrons broiled too hot to keep from boiling over. His balls pressed tighter and tighter against his pubis as his bloated nightstick swelled up and out to full prominence.

A rather dignified looking middle-aged gentleman in hornrim glasses and striped school tie held his briefcase tighter against his boxer-bound genitalia as he regarded the spectacle of this brawny god bobbing barely four feet before him. This was his first visit to the Rialto. It wouldn't be his last.

As he watched Wally's balls ascend completely into the pubic cavities that were their fetal home, and as he saw Wally's foot long Whopper stretch to an even fuller mind-boggling, vein- bursting thirteen inches, the gentleman lost it. He flung his briefcase aside, hitting a man behind in the side of the head, and he shrieked like a maniac, "I've gotta have him! Sweet Lord in heaven! I've gotta have him!"

That made Wally lose it too.

The look of the drool slobbering onto the executive's chin and the tears of frustration flooding his eyes took the dancer over the brink. He crouched, knees wide, at the edge of the stage directly in front of the lusting voyeur. Locking his arms behind his head, he looked deep in the man's tearing eyes and willed his engorged dick to shoot a steady stream of thick cum from the tip of his burning pisslit all the way to the tented lap of his spellbound victim. The deranged man tried to leap mouth- first onto the big spurting cock but couldn't. Despite the overpowering urge, he felt locked in place. He was. Both his arms were being held down by hands hired by the management and placed on either side of him.

As he bellowed a final desperate, "Dear God, let me go! Let me at him!", he lifted his obscene penile mound from his chair. His dick cut through the unzipped slit and issued load after load of searing hot cream as he screamed in lust and desperation.

The audience en masse thundered and roared a storm of approval. Wally rose to his feet to acknowledge the cheers, and as he bowed, his enormous prick still spouted juice. The stupefied executive crossed his eyes as his head fell back and he fainted dead away!

The guards beside him swiftly unfastened his trousers, and husked them and the sopping wet boxers beneath, down to his shins. They lifted the comatose man onto his feet and offered Wally his victor's spoils: The priceless sight of the executive's still swollen and throbbing genitals, still dribbling cream, slicked over with a whitewash of rich, pungent cum. His thick pubic hair too was caked and matted with the gop. And his well-trained belly and hard thighs were gleaming with nectar as well.

Wally shouted out, "Isn't this a lovely dish to set before the king!" as he dipped a booted toe into the glob in the man's nest and bunted it to the back wall.

One of the sentries scooped up a fingerful of semen from the man's nutcase and with an grand gesture and an exaggerated slurp sucked it off the tip, as his cohort sang out, "Mmm! Mmm! Good!" A refrain the entire crowd soon took up.

Wally laughed and blew the living corpse a kiss as the "Mmm! Mmm! Good!" chant became shouts of "Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen!"

The poor, happy slob was the seventeenth Rialto neophyte, carefully positioned front row center, to blow his wad and fall in a dead faint over one of the dancers. For Wally himself, it was Victim Number Seven. As he stood rigidly still and bowed only his firm member to the cheering crowd, he couldn't help thinking that he'd finally tied Bobby's record.

Feeling completely full of himself, Wally took an exaggerated conquering bow with one fist clenched high in the air and the other wrapped around the base of his enormous dick. As he turned to the right to accept his acclaim, A wide arc of his manmilk shot out to bless that side of the house. Then as he twisted to the left, a long cord of cum, freshly oozed from his dickmouth, went flying like an abandoned second stage rocket, and smacked a trio of cheering fans third row left. They lapped it up. So did Wally.

Old Man Mainz felt his own raging slit ooze still more unwanted milk despite the fingertip held hard against his own pisslit.

Matty, the guy in the too-tight jeans, felt as though his throbbing dick would crack in two from the strain. He nearly cried out loud in torment. He looked into Oscar's lap next to him and saw that the tent in his pants had split open at the seam below the fly. A good inch and a half gap exposed some shimmering ballskin. Matty's own nuts started to burn as he looked! Then when he saw the underside of Oscar's coronal ridge on display next to the bag, he let out a weak sob and felt his bruised prickslit press deeper and harder into its denim cell. His mouth and eyes widened comically as he felt the pulsating convict trapped in his pants pour its guts out against his will.

Jivin' Jay and his preppie ballplay buddy had switched suck spots midway through Wally's act and, in fact, had seen nothing of his fabulous performance. Totally oblivious to the tumult around them, they had played on. And on. And on. The blond's pulpy pink-sacked plums were now being served and serviced. Jivin' gnawed and sucked his buddy as he stroked his own self- lubricating piston to another super-charged release.

In the back row, little Sidney was whimpering like a wounded puppy. As the Pasha Sinday of Lower Ninevah, he was being forced to submit to, and just barely endure, his sacred Coming Of Age ritual. All princes royal since time immemorial had to submit to the holy rite. Failing the test meant the dissolution of his dynasty and his own death by hanging. By the balls. Pasha Sinday bit his lower lip and drew blood. He was determined not to fail.

"Cursed be this Mighty Temptor! He seeks the Imperial Waters in vain! Only the exalted son of Isis and Thor himself, namely I, Pasha and Potentate, Sindar the Magnificent, shall ever bathe in the sacred stream! Nor will the next Phallic Beelzebub drain the power from these royal gonads! This I pledge in troth by the royal purple of my exalted dick!"

As Wally strutted arrogantly offstage, he saluted his fans on both sides of the deep apron, and consciously and conscientiously rolled each orb of his perfect buttocks as seductively and deliberately as he could. With each alternating flex, he drove the audience completely lust-loco. The full solid spheres of flesh formed and reformed, pressing against each other like planets colliding in space. The globes of his ass were so mammoth they seemed omnipresent. All eyes were fixed on each big ball as it slowly grew smaller and more distant.

Tomato Dick watched the massive buttock mounds and his mind's eye saw a pair of enormous balls dangling like big lead weights and slamming against battered thighs. As he fantasized, he swore to himself that someday his ever-growing testicles would match the size and heft of Wally's beautiful ass mounds.

As the lights dimmed to black, the dancer parted the back curtain and stepped behind, coming face to face with Bouncin' Bobby. Their eyes met instinctively in challenge, like any other animal studs in sexual competition.

"Nice job, Wally, you even got me goin'!", Bobby said with sincerity. He stood back to add an illustrated "See?"

Wally saw that when he came, he conquered.

"Thanks, Robert. I just warmed 'em up for ya, kid. Go out there an' sic 'em!" He slapped his ex-partner on the ass. Bobby felt a glow, warmer than just a spank sting. His entrance music started up. Wally broke eye contact, grinned, and began the walk to their common dressing area. But something inside urged him to turn back.

Bobby, hands out to part the curtain, was startled to be spun around and slapped again. This time with a sloppy french kiss from his ex's cushiony lips.

Bobby responded intuitively. His tongue explored each sweet warm sector of Wally's mouth. His right hand fell to gently squeeze and fondle his buddy-rival's goppy, half-hard dick. Wally swapped cops and cupped the fullness of Bobby's basket, sliding over the damp spent juices he had inspired. His thumb and forefinger pinched the apex of the sopping nylon pouch as the bowl of his palm carried the weight of his competitor's corpulent balls.

The driving beat of Bobby's music quickened and grew louder as their lips peeled free. The show had to go on. They were both dedicated professionals and there was an audience out front hungry for entertainment. Bobby knew he had to deliver it.

He pulled back and gazed into Wally's Irish Setter eyes. Then he took in the full mouth, moustache-rimmed and moist, the cheeks, clear and olive, prickled with a stubble so thick the beard looked full-grown close-shaved. His tongue swiped the sandpaper jaw, then licked down Wally's neck to swab the heaving pec knolls on his downy chest and to seek, suck and chew each jutting nipple barb dotting their summits.

Wally's balls were working overtime. He felt fresh dick-drool puddle on his bare toes as Bobby's tongue worked its way back up the side of his neck.

"I'd say we have some unfinished business to take care of," Bobby breathed into Wally's ear as his tongue trailed the meaty rim and chewed the big droopy lobe.

Wally crushed his solid body against his sexmate and held him tight by the ass. "You know what I'm gonna do tonight, stud?"

"No. Whaccha gonna do, stud?"

"I'm gonna chew your balls like sweet jawbreakers till the sun comes up. And I'm gonna save your spilled cum and pour it like cream over our breakfast Wheaties."

"Uh huh", Bobby sighed, licking deep in Wally's ear, "Then whatcha gonna do?"

"Then I'm gonna suck your salty nuts like hamhocks till the noon bell rings and tells me to pour your fresh juices over our Aunt Jemimas like thick gooey maple syrup."

"Mmmm." Bobby moaned, teething on the short hairs at the nape of Wally's neck, as his pisslit oozed precum through his g-string into the fondling hand. "Then whatcha gonna do?"

"Then I'm gonna mouth boil those great big hen's eggs of yours till the five o'clock whistle blows for dinner. And I'm gonna..."

"And I'm gonna play chef for a while and blend our milks together to brew a rich, thick soup for us to slobber down for supper. And we'll get so bloated on the broth it'll force out fresh cum for the next day's breakfast!"

"I like your way with words, kid!"

"Wally, I feel like the luckiest guy alive! I dunno what I've done to deserve a swell guy like you! You're aces. man! And, hell, not many fools get a second ride on the merry-go-round. I missed my chance at the brass ring last time but, buddy, when it taps my fingers this time, I'm gonna hold on so tight it'll beg for mercy!"

"I love you, kid!"

"Oh, Wally, I love you more than anything! Apart we do okay, but together we've the moon and the stars! Let's not let them set and leave us in the dark again, baby! This time to hell with the billing! Balls! Dick! Who gives a fuck which comes first! This time your dick and my balls are equals! I've been wastin' away, pining like a bloodhound bayin' at midnight, without you! Aw, ya big lug, you know I can't live without your great big dick!"

"Hey, man," Wally groaned, returning his lover's neck swabs, "I dream of your big fat balls night and day, asleep or awake! I see them everywhere I look, everywhere I am! Especially bowling, man, that's when I miss 'em most! Aw shit, I was One stupid asshole to ever let your nuts get away!"

"No, baby, I was the asshole."

"No, big buddy, I was the asshole!"

"Okay, have it your way, stud. I'm through fightin'! All I want from now on is lovin', just lovin' and more lovin'!"

As the two sweaty, young athletes suctioned their lovesick bodies tighter and kissed so deep each felt the other's tongue down his throat, the musical din from the loudspeakers was overwhelmed by a deafening chant:

"Bouncin' Bobby! Bouncin' Bobby! Bouncin' Bobby!"

"You're on, baby! Give 'em hell!"

Wally shoved Bobby through the curtain with a suddenness that made him appear on stage like a mystical apparition. The vision of the big blond with the perfect body, nude save for the thin strap sweeping a heart's curve over the top of his buns, stilled the booming roar to a breathless hush.

In the dead silence, one lone voice cried, "Bounce 'em, Bobby! Bounce 'em!", and the show began.

With his back to the crowd, Bobby stood facing the silver ribboned curtain covering the rear of the stage. He watched his slivered reflections sway in mutating bits and pieces: the sharp arch of his right deltoid changed into the rounded point of a burnished nipple. The curve of a thigh outline wrapped itself around a slice of abdominal ridging. And, as the curtain rocked on, a mylar band mirroring his full lips kissed a refracted strip of his bulging yellow pouch.

He flushed with happiness, feeling hotter, sexier, hornier, and more desirable than he'd ever felt before. He couldn't keep it all inside. It burst out oh him with a shout:

"Get ready for the sextravaganza of your lives, fuckers!"

He twirled on the ball of one foot to face his captivated audience as sexual captive. The impact made grown men shudder. The sweat that beaded over his voluptuous biceps and pectorals sparkled like glitter. His Hershey kiss nipples stuck out like silver arrowheads, and beneath their long shadows, the deep groves of his washboard stomach etched ripples that played with the light like the ridges of the Grand Canyon at High Noon.

All this virile pulchritude stood on two downy fleeced legs so shapely and well sculpted that at the sight of them, Donatello would have melted his David for scrap iron, and Michelangelo, shattered his into marble chips, rather than concede defeat or knowingly immortalize imperfection.

But far more flawless was the feature no sculptor, from Hellenic times through the Renaissance, would dare depict with such outrageous articulation. The true focal point of Bobby's splendor rose as a colossal yellow mound at the juncture of pubis and thighs.

Dripping wet with precum, semen and sweat, the soggy fabric piece barely served its function as a filmy, translucent veil to shield Bobby's clearly visible penis and testicles. The elasticized hem of the pouch circled and clasped the base of his genitals with just enough pressure to hold the blood that had flowed into his shaft and keep it from escaping. As a result, his massive genitals were doubly enlarged and so ominous that the yellow balloon threatened to shatter and spatter the crowd with all his vital fluids.

Between Bobby's legs, the sun rose. It's molten gold promised nourishment for all living things. In return, the dangling amber sphere drew the history of man into itself. Dripping temptingly, the forbidden fruit of The Tree of Life begged for a bite! Drooping alluringly, the luscious pomegranates of the Song of Songs sang passionate melodies. Blazing radiance, rare and precious opals refused by the Princess Salome were offered anew in payment for a dance.

Suspended in time, in the space between Bobby's thighs, hung the glory that was Greece, the greatness that was Rome, and the undiscovered Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World! Here, from his pubis, the most exquisite set of genitalia homoerotica hung like giant globules of infinity!

Slowly, very very slowly and very subtlely Bobby began to bounce his bulging basket. The music that had been playing at lowest volume, stopped altogether. The crowd roar, long stilled, lost even its murmur. All was dead silence. Except for the sound of the sex organs sloshing in their nylon package.

Bobby's lemon balls and banana dick danced and mashed into one another in a Macedonian gambol. The big luscious fruit, raw and ready to eat, seeped its sweet nectar through sheer sequesterings. The rich tantalizing aroma of its ripeness perfumed the stagnant air from floor to ceiling and out to the four corners of the shabby auditorium.

Although the stage lighting was simple, only a single spotlight ahead and a small group of gel-colored fresnels above, it seemed that an unearthly white light was coming from within the bag at Bobby's groin. His gently bouncing balls shimmered with a cabalistic light of their own.

"Oh ye gods above, no! No! No, I say!", Sinday cried to the icons in his drugged brain. "This is too wicked of these lusting fiends! May these execrable demons of temptation putrefy in their stench deep in the bowels of hell!

"No! This Satan will not conquer my kingdom! I will dispatch the devil and triumph! I will overcome and overpower him!"

But as he spoke the vows, Sidney's fingers stroked his thin shaft and ran along the tiny exposed arch of his tight ballbag.

"Dear, sweet gods," he added, wistfully, "Must ye fail me now?"

Clasping his hands behind his neck, Bobby spread his legs wide apart and began his celebrated spring-dance to the front of the stage. His basket answered his body's movements by bouncing and bounding flagrantly, a fallen coconut bobbing on the crests of a storm at sea. The bundled dick and balls pitched and heaved with seasickening tosses from thigh to thigh. The pouch bounded and rolled from flat stomach to swollen perineum like a buoyant but helpless victim of a tidal wave.

Dick, despite his stint as a rugged semened seaman, could still feel the bile rising inside as he followed the progress of the heaving yellow ball. He was angry. More: he was furious! He resented this guy on stage, with his trussed tubers the size of his own. All the more since, unlike his, these appeared to be real.

Even through the amber haze encasing them, the fresh natural pinkness of the giant balls matched the pearly cast of the dancer's build. Riding on his own wave of self-hate, Dick's battered psyche slammed into the buoyant balls up ahead. He felt sick at the sight of them. He resented their pride and arrogance. The loathing built up deep in his own nuts until he feared they might crack.

Completely unaware of his actions, Dick raised his right arm and brought its fist down with a resounding jab to his poor defenseless balls. It struck like thunder, and he felt a bolt of lightning deep inside jolt him back to an agonizing reality. To hold back the scream in his brain, Dick bit down hard on the hand that slapped him.

From his crow's nest perch above, Mainz had heard and seen everything. He immediately understood the motivation for the blow. He snickered out loud but resisted the temptation to mutter, "Face it, swabbie, ya either got it or ya ain't". The stale smell of booze wafting up from the guy had Mainz intuit the guy was a mean drunk. So the old guy held his tongue as well as his slobbering dickhead and meditated instead on big hairy cunts. It was a negative mantra to hold his dick off until the end of the show. But neither the prayer nor the finger shoved up into his tortured pisslit were doing much to stem the tide.

Across the way, Jivin' Jay and his preppie ball buddy had stopped their bilateral moves and were sitting spellbound, side by side, watching the rise and fall of the great yellow moon through the tree trunk thighs. Each man held the other's ballbag, like Greeks clutch prayerbeads, and rolled them over, unconsciously, between their fingers. Having already sampled the appetizers of each other's nuts, their mouths watered watching Bobby's bouncing bag like ravenous diners impatient for a taste of the main course.

Standing center stage, Bobby felt the sexual power he was unleashing. He had each guy there by the balls, and he knew it. He stopped his bounce.

Up in the control booth, Joe dropped his dick onto his balls and jumped at Bobby's cue. He canned the disco and hit the switch on the drumroll tape and set the volume to medium low. Beside him, Biff, the lightingman, tucked his stiff dick back under his console and reset the fresnels on Bobby to just the blues.

Then, as he reached up for the follow spot to click the bastard pink gel in place, his foot slipped in a puddle of cum and he lost his balance. Luckily Joe's reflexes were aces. He caught his co-worker by his bare ass just in time to keep him from falling back and crushing the carton of raisinettes and M&M's stashed in the little room. Biff landed in Joe's lap and his droopy balls were speared by the soundman's dripping stiffer. He moaned and laughed. They both did. Things could have been worse. Who wants squashed M&M's?

Bobby basked in the pink glow. He unlocked his hands from behind his head and he plunged them straight out into the sea of deep blue fresnels. Every regular knew what would come next.

One of them jumped out of his chair and made a dash for the john. He had a chronic nerve problem that made him super-sensitive and he'd forgotten his valiums. And he knew what was coming. And he knew he couldn't take it without a tranquillizer. He was hyper-ventilating and the scintillating scatoma of a coming migraine was already blinding Bobby from his sight. Worst of all, his gut was heaving and he could taste vomit spasming and starting to climb up his esophagus.

He fell face first on the can and heaved as his pounding brain reran the sight of Bobby's big balls bouncing around. As he threw up, fantasizing, his dick shot off in his shorts.

Matty knew what was next too.

"Fuck this shit!", he muttered to himself, "Fuck it! Fuck this fucking shit!" He tore open the button fly of his tight 501's and skinned the jeans and slimy jock beneath down to his ankles. Hadn't he suffered enough?, he asked himself. His poor miserable dick and mangled nuts had never hurt anybody, had they? Then why the fuck was he treating them like shit?

He whined out loud and looked down at his poor crushed dick. It was patterned from the jock weave like a waffle. He nearly cried as it sprang sorely to life. He spread his bare legs wide--"Who the fuck gives a flying fuck anyway?"--and sighed with relief as his sticky ballskin slowly unpeeled itself and, fully unfurled, draped, liberated, onto his lap.

Across the aisle, Old Man Mainz, bug-eyed and lizard-tongued, felt the rumblings of a major heart attack. Fortunately he brought amyl nitrate for just such an emergency. He cracked one open and took a good deep whiff.

Bobby was statue still. Only his bulge pulsated slightly. He parted his viscous lips and turned his head slowly to each side. Then he stared straight ahead. His lips parted slightly.

"Wanna see somethin', fellahs?", he barely whispered.

A lust-drained chorus moaned, "Yeah!"

"Sorry, fellahs", Bobby taunted them, "My hearin' must be goin'. Did you guys say somethin'?"

The mob of hard-ons managed a firmer "Yeah!" in response.

"I saw your lips move. So ya musta said somethin'."

One great voice croaked a broken "Yeah!"

"Aw, c'mon, fellahs! Ain't ya had enough?"

The crowd summoned up enough communal energy to roar a steady chant of "Bobby's balls! Bobby's balls! Bobby's balls!" that tore through the theatre and shook its walls, clear down to the foundations of the building itself.

On the first floor below the theatre, a waitress in the Howard Johnson's felt the vibrations like the tremors of a seven point oh on the Richter Scale. She teetered across the floor with two precariously balanced trays of burgers, fries and shakes high above her head and dumped them along with the ketchup and mustard onto the laps of a pair of couples from Jersey, enjoying a late night supper after "Cats".