call me daddy kink

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By: celtic_male

Be careful when you take a rain check.  You might have to cash it in.

“Think we should use this on you?”  George Logan asked.   His blue eyes twinkled in his grizzled face, suggesting he was teasing.  George, or Old George as people often referred to him, had been a close friend of my father’s, and I often stopped to visit for a short time just to chew the fat.  He was 87 years old, but still going strong--limber and spry, with the energy of someone half his years.

 “I’m guessing no,” I replied. “But what is it?” I asked.   The implement he had taken down from a hook in the barn wall looked somewhat like a pair of pliers, or maybe more like a pair of bolt cutters.  The “teeth” of bolt cutters are sharp, though, while these were more blunt.

 “A burdizzo,” replied George Logan.  “It’s used to castrate bull calves and colts.”He took it down from the hook it hung on.  “See, you get the calf’s ball sack in here between the ends of the clamp, and then you squeeze the clamp shut.  Crushes the cords that carry the sperm.  I’m surprised you never saw one  o’ them before, you growin’ up on a farm and all.”

 “I saw lots of calves castrated,” I replied, “but my dad always had the vet come out and do it.  He’d cut open the sack and squeeze the balls out, then clip ‘em loose.  I’m sure we never used a gadget like that.”

 “Lots of advantages to this,” George said.  “Less chance of infection.  Easier.  Just clamp ‘n’ squeeze.  No cuttin’ involved.  ‘ Course once in a while you think you got them cords clamped good ‘n’ tight, and you didn’t quite get ‘em.  I’ve had a couple heifers get pregnant by a bull calf I thought was a steer.  Wasn’t any harm done, just unexpected.”

 “Kind of like a vasectomy on a human,” I observed.  “Except with a vasectomy they go in and cut the cords.  Seems like this’d be more practical.  Why couldn’t they use that on a human?” I wondered.

 Old George looked nonplused for a minute.  “Don’t know,” he answered.  “Suppose they could if it’d fit it above his balls.  Works on bull calves and goats.  They make clamps different sizes—smaller ones for sheep and goats, larger ones for good-sized calves, bigger ones yet for older bull calves and colts.  This here set’s for a good-sized calf.”  He opened and closed the device experimentally.  “Drop your drawers and let’s see.”  He grinned mischievously.

 “Don’t get any ideas,” I said. 

  “I ain’t gonna try to use it,” George said.  “Just wonderin’ if it would fit.”

 “Oh,” I answered.  “Okay.”   I undid my jeans and let them drop, then lowered my briefs.

“Nice-sized set of balls you got there, young man,” George said admiringly.

 “Thanks.  I think,” I said, feeling embarrassed.  I knew from days back in phys ed that my nuts were larger and hung lower than some guys’ did.  But it’s not every day somebody comments on the size of your gonads, especially another man, and one your father’s age at that.

 “If they was higher and tighter, I don’t think it’d work without some manipulatin’, prob’ly more than you’d want or I’d care to do. But yours hang some,” he observed.  “I think it’d work.”  He got down on his knees and picked up the burdizzo, which he’d laid down in the straw nearby.  “Spread your legs a bit,” he said, “and squat a little.”

 I did and felt the cold metal of the clamp against the top of my scrotum.  I shivered, because the burdizzo was cold against my warm skin but also because the idea of someone wielding a castration implement anywhere near my exposed balls was more than a little unnerving .

 “Don’t see why it wouldn’t work,” George observed, “leastways on someone built like you.  I do think a smaller size would work better.  I got one around here somewheres from when I used to raise a few goats.  Don’t rightly know where right now. I’ll look for it.  Say, I’m all done out here. You wanta come inside for a cup of coffee?”

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 I stopped by George’s place a couple days later on the way home.  I found him in the barn, dragging a bale of hay across the floor with a hay hook to feed a pen of heifers.  He cut the twine on the bale and hung the hook on the wall between a collection of halters, the burdizzo, and a couple pitchforks. He swung the burdizzo off the wall and playfully made like he was heading for my crotch with it.

  I laughed and half squatted like I was giving him access, then straightened up.

 “I used to work for Doc Blanchard years ago,” George said, slowly standing up straight and dusting the hay off his pants.  “He’d work on a man now and then, but he always cut ‘em.”

 “Doc Blanchard, the vet over at Smiths Crossing?” I asked, surprised.  “Is it legal for a vet to do something like that?”

 “Naw,” replied Old George.  “But people do lots of things that ain’t legal when there’s a need an’ no harm done.”

“Well,” I said, “a vet should know how to do it if anybody did besides a regular doctor.”

“Hell,” said Old George, “any old farmer prob’ly could.  They know how.  Years ago, farmers took care of those matters themselves.  Wasn’t always a vet around, and when there was, they couldn’t afford to pay to have it done.  I’ve castrated more calves ‘n’ colts than I can count.”

 “Never did a man, though, I assume,” I said.

 “No,” George answered.  “Never did that.   Could always give it a go,” he said playfully, his blue eyes twinkling as he pretended to head for my crotch with the burdizzo.

 “Not today, George.  Sorry,” I answered, laughing.

 “Shucks!” he pretended to be downcast.  “Oh well .  Always another time.”

 “Don’t count on it,” I replied.  “Got any coffee goin’ inside?”

 “Sure do.  Come in and tell me how your boy’s doin’ in them college classes he’s takin’.”

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 I generally visited George a couple times a week on my way home from work, usually finding him working in the http://barn.George liked to tease.  He’d pretend he could hook up his milking machine to my nipples, which would never work, or he was going to give me a shot of cattle antibiotic.  Sometimes he’d tease with the burdizzo. 

 One day when I stopped, he asked me to help him use it on three bull calves.  We tied each to a post in the barn, then shackled its legs so it couldn’t kick.  I watched as he clamped each scrotum above the testicles and squeezed  the burdizzo shut tight against the cords.  It didn’t take long and wasn’t particularly hard.

 “You next?” he teased again

 “I’ll take a rain check,” I answered, laughing. 

He chuckled.  “Stayin’ for coffee?” he asked.

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 As usual George was in the barn when I stopped a couple days later.  “Article in the paper yesterday,” he said.  “On the history of slavery.  Seems they used to use an implement like a burdizzo to castrate slaves in Rome.”

 “Must work then,” I replied, “I’m kind of surprised it isn’t used more for that today.  Seems like it would be more sanitary than even a vasectomy when guys don’t want more kids.”

  “Don’t know why they don’t,” George said.  “Does seem like it would be.   “’course might be a little more to it if a guy’s balls didn’t hang much.  But seems like it oughta work fine if they do…” he said pensively. “Like yours do. I found that goat clamp.   Drop your trousers.  Let’s see how it fits on you.”

 “I don’t know…” I began.

 “Ta see if it’d work,” he interrupted.

  I unbuckled my belt and slid my jeans down round my boots, then my under shorts.  George knelt down and looked me over.  I felt weird being inspected like this. 

 “Don’t see any reason why this wouldn’t work on a man.  Shouldn’t be too hard.  Easier on one made like you,” he observed.  “Would need better access to make sure it’d work right, I think. Step outta them trousers.” I took off my boots and stepped out of my jeans.  “Now spread your legs some and lean over that manger.”  

 Again, I felt the cold steel of a burdizzo against my scrotum, the smaller goat clamp this time.  From what I could tell, it fit easily.  I shivered.

 George looked out the open barn door.  “Been rainin’ all day today,” he observed.  

 “Steady drizzle,” I answered.

 “Still rainin’” he said.  “You took a rain check a while back, I believe.”

 “Yes, I did,” I replied. “I didn’t …”

 “Rainin’ today.  Good day to cash in a rain check.”

 He looked up at me, his gaze steady.  “I’m gonna castrate you today, son,” he stated flatly.  It was a simple statement of fact, not something to be argued with.

 “I know you are, George.” I answered.  I spread my legs a little more to give him better access, and waited for the inevitable. He shackled my legs apart, and God help me, I let him.  Then, after what seemed like an eternity, I felt the cold hard steel of the burdizzo close on my scrotum, followed by a sharp intense pain as George closed the burdizzo and squeezed, hard, crushing the cords in one side of my scrotum.

 “Other side,” said George, and I felt George feeling for the cords to my left testicle this time, then the cold teeth of the burdizzo clamp.  Again, the intense pain as the cords were crushed, so intense I almost passed out .   

  “God almighty,” I erupted.  “That hurt like hell!”

 “Pretty sure I got ‘em,” George said, “You took it like a man.  Prob’ly be some bruisin’ down there, but I’m pretty sure we got you all neutered.   In a couple three weeks, when you stop by, we’ll do it again to make sure.”  He chuckled.  “Think you can make it to the house for a cup of coffee?”