S.A.C. 3 - Brock's Livestream

Brock's fingers found the radio clipped to his overalls, his thumb hovering over the power switch as he stood in the doorway of the locker room. The air inside was thick and warm, almost tropical, and it made his skin prickle with something that felt like anticipation mixed with vertigo. His heart hammered against his ribs in a rhythm that matched the pulse in his groin, where his cock had been half-hard since the moment he'd entered Phatbuldge Manor. He pressed the switch, silencing the device, and then reached for the body camera mounted on his chest. The team didn't need to see this. This was for his audience. His paying audience.

The rationalization came easy... too easy, maybe, but Brock didn't pause to examine it. If Duke or Josh wandered into frame while he was streaming, it would be a disaster. Copyright issues, privacy concerns, the whole mess that came with accidentally broadcasting someone without permission. Better to just... handle this solo. Document the space on his terms. For his fans.

He unclipped the body camera and set it on top of a rusted locker, the lens facing the wall. There. Done.

His camera bag hit the floor with a soft thud, and Brock knelt to unzip it, his fingers working with practiced efficiency. He pulled out his primary camera, a sleek mirrorless setup with a flip screen, and his portable ring light, the equipment that had funded his gym membership and his protein powder habit and, if he was honest, most of his actual rent. He'd gotten pretty good at the whole OnlyFans thing; setting up in weird locations, finding the angles that made his body look best, playing to an audience that existed as usernames and dollar amounts. Sure, he didn't have a ton of subscribers, but two hundred bucks a months as better than none at all.

He just needed to go viral, and he had a feeling that here at Phatbuldge Manor, that dream could finally happen.

The locker room offered surprising possibilities. Three lockers formed a natural alcove in the back corner, their doors hanging at angles that created depth and shadow. A hole in the ceiling behind him cast everything in swirling motes of amber, which would translate to a warm, vintage quality on camera. Brock set up the ring light on a adjustable stand, positioned it to eliminate shadows on his torso, and then adjusted the camera in the center of it to center primarily on the bench where he would be sitting. He powered everything on, adjusted the focus, checked the frame. Perfect. His body would fill the screen from mid-thigh to just above his head, with enough room to show his arms when he flexed. He tapped the screen, bringing up his streaming app, and felt the familiar flutter of nervous excitement in his stomach.

His thumb hovered over the "Go Live" button.

The bench beneath where he'd be performing was the 'last one standing' as it were. It was made of old wood, scarred and water-damaged, but still solid enough. Probably. He walked over and stepped on it, testing the wood with his weight. The wood creaked, sagging downwards, but held. Good enough. He brought his foot back down to the old tiled floor, and something popped under neath it with a wet squelch. Brock jumped back, to find a flattened foil packet with a spurt of soured goo splattered from inside it. The packet was ancient, the label too faded to read, but the slick substance leaking from it was unmistakable. Lube. He scraped his boot against the concrete, grimacing, and felt a strange flutter in his chest that was somewhere between unease and excitement. The sound that the packet had made.. it hadn't sounded like a popping packet. It had sounded like a ripe tomato. It had crunched. 

Whatever, fuck it. He turned back to the camera, tapped "Go Live", and watched the viewer count climb. One. Five. Twenty. Fifty. His regular audience flooding in, their usernames scrolling past in the chat window.

"Hey everyone," Brock said, his voice dropping into the smooth, confident register he used for streams. "Guess where I am?" He panned the camera across the locker room, letting them take in the decay and the shadows. "I'm in a haunted bathhouse you might have heard of." He paused watching various location names scrolled across the screen. "You're all wrong. I'm in fucking Phatbuldge Manor. You know, the one where some ghost supposedly rips guys' nuts off?"

The chat exploded. Emojis, exclamation points, messages scrolling so fast he could barely read them.

NO WAY

omg are you serious

BROCK YOU'RE INSANE

this is gonna be legendary

He grinned, feeling the validation wash through him like warm honey. "Yeah, I'm serious, Alejo918! I woke up today and I just figured, you know, what better place to break my three-week dry spell?" He cupped himself through his overalls, squeezing the heavy weight of his testicles, feeling them shift against his palm. "These bad boys have been suffering. Time to give them some relief."

More messages. More emojis. And then... a tip notification. Fifty dollars from BigBallLover87. Then another. One hundred dollars from NutBustedDaily. These were not his regular users.

That meant his stream was being shared - distributed - passed around. People were talking. Brock's cock thickened fully, pressing against the rough, slick inside of his overalls. This was going to be good. Fuck, this was going to be great.

He stepped back, making sure he was centered in frame, and then hooked his thumbs into the straps of his overalls. "Hey, thanks for the tips. You clearly wanna see the goods, so let's give you what you came for."

The overalls dropped, and he caught it in one hand, holding it over his groin like a bath towel. His body was exactly what three years of obsessive training and careful dieting had sculpted it into... compact but powerful, every muscle group defined and proportional. His caramel-brown skin looked golden in the ring light, and he turned slightly, flexing his back and glutes, knowing exactly which angles drove his audience wild.

The chat lost its mind. Tips poured in. Forty dollars. Another fifty. Two hundred from someone called HungryGhost69.

Brock smirked at that one. Appropriate.

He faced the camera again and slid his thumbs under the waistband of his gym shorts. "You ready for this?" He didn't wait for an answer. He dropped his overalls and let his cock and balls spill up and out into the open, the weighted of them swinging heavily forward before slapping back against his meaty thighs with a heavy whumph.

His cock was thick, uncut, the foreskin pulled back slightly to reveal the flushed glans already leaking pre-cum. Brock knew that being only eight inches long meant that he needed something else to back up his big thick unit, and fortunately, he had his balls for just that purpose. They hung low and heavy, each one easily as big around as a naval orange, and today, the skin of his scrotum was stretched so tight around them it looked painful. Which it was. Three weeks and two days of edging twice daily had turned his balls into swollen, pressurized sacks of genetic material, and the skin had darkened slightly, pulled taut over the expanded mass of his epididymis and the seminiferous tubules packed with sperm.

He cupped them both, lifting them for the camera, his fingers sinking slightly into the firm flesh. "Look at these fuckers," he said, his voice thick with pride and arousal. "Three weeks. They're like water balloons. Juicy. Pressurized. I swear to God, when I finally bust, it's gonna be everywhere. I'm talking walls, ceiling, and definitely all over my own face." He grinned, squeezing gently, swearing he almost felt them gurgle as the fluids shifted inside them. "I hope you guys are ready for a show."

The chat was incomprehensible now, just a solid block of scrolling text and emojis. Tips kept flooding in, most of them small, but every penny mattered. The counter in the corner of his screen climbed past six hundred dollars.

Brock released his balls and felt them settle back into position, sure that they had flattened a bulge in the side of his muscular thighs. He turned, giving the camera a view of his ass, and then walked toward the bench. His testicles swung sluggishly forward between his thighs with each step, the motion hypnotic, obscene.

He sat down on the bench, spreading his legs wide to give the camera an unobstructed view of his equipment. The wood creaked under him, and he shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position. His scrotum hung down between his thighs, his nuts weighing so much that without his overalls they were able to sag right down past the bench, hanging in the open air underneath it. The wood of the bench pressed against the back of them, as he squirmed his rear against the rough wood.

Then... a sharp pinch.

"Fuck!" Brock yelped, jerking forward and immediately reaching back to cup his balls. His fingers probed the tender skin, checking for damage, his heart suddenly hammering. His skin was caught in the bench. He could feel the wood pinching against the skin. The old wood had split at some point, leaving a gap maybe an inch wide, and when he'd shifted his weight, the edges had pinched into a bit of his scrotum skin. 

He lifted his nuts up and out of the way, letting the camera see how his scrotum was caught in the crack, shaking his head. 

"Jesus," he muttered, winking to the camera. "This fucking haunted house just tried to snag my balls, and I'm not even pre-cumming yet." He pulled slowly on his sack, working his skin loose from the crack in the bench. 

The chat exploded again, but this time the tone was different. Excited. Eager.

OMG DID YOU SEE THAT

the crack almost got him

lucky bench, wish it was me biting his sack

BROCK!1 BE CAREFUL PAPI

no wait keep going

  I'll tip $500 if your balls get destroyed

Brock stared at that last message, his mouth going dry. Five hundred dollars. Someone wanted to pay him five hundred bucks for the 'priviledge' of watching Brock lose his balls. He laughed again, but it came out shaky. "You guys are fucking sick, you know that?" He cupped his testicles possessively, feeling their heat and weight. "Why would you want me to lose these? Look at them. They're fucking huge. They're Perfect."

Another tip. Two hundred and sixty nine dollars from CastrationFan420.

Another. Two hundred from BallBustBuddy.

Brock's cock twitched, leaking a thick strand of pre-cum that dripped onto the concrete between his feet. He had no idea who these people were, but it seemed like his stream had been raided by a bunch of dudes who were into the idea of guys losing their nuts. He stroked a finger along his dick, his brain simmering with ideas. The amount of money they were tossing at him was was... intoxicating. Insanely validating. Even if their reasoning was perverted - they were fantasizing about him losing his balls - the idea that it was specifically his balls that they wanted to see get wrecked was... kind of empowering. His balls were the biggest and the best, right? If you wanted to see someone lose their mansack, shouldn't it be the guy with the biggest?

"Alright," he said, wrapping his hand around his shaft. "Alright. You fuckers wanna fantasize about me losing my balls? Lemme show you why you got it all wrong. These balls are here to stay. It's gonna take a lot more than an old bench and an old ghost to threaten me."

He started stroking, slow and deliberate, his grip tight enough to make his foreskin slide smoothly over his glans. His other hand moved to his balls, cupping them, lifting them, presenting them to the camera like offerings. The skin of his scrotum was so tight that he could see the outline of each ovoid testicle clearly, the puffy epididymis that sourced seed from them clearly delineated in the soft scrotal flesh.

"You see these?" he said, his voice rougher now, edged with arousal. "These are what three weeks of edging looks like. These are what dedication looks like." He squeezed gently, feeling the fluid shift inside, the pressure building. "And you all wanna destroy them?" He held back a smirk as another hundred bucks rolled in. "Sick freaks. These are my balls, man, my boys. Maybe some ghost really does get off on destroying balls. But look at these things. They're fucking tanks. They're not going anywhere."

The bait worked, and the tips kept coming. The chat kept scrolling. Brock kept stroking, his rhythm increasing, his breathing getting heavier. Fuck, he was nailing this. He was turning his body into a spectacle, his pleasure into a commodity, the threat of his destruction into a fantasy that people could try to buy. He knew how to angle his hips so the camera caught everything... the thick shaft of his cock, the way his balls swung with each stroke, the pre-cum leaking steadily from his tip. And the audience ate it up.

He didn't notice the temperature drop. Didn't see the faint shimmer in the air behind him, or the way the sun-flicked dust motes seemed to coalesce into something almost solid. The chat noticed, messages scrolling faster, but Brock's eyes were half-closed, his focus entirely on the sensation building in his groin.

Cold fingers brushed against his scrotum, and goosebumps prickled along his thighs from the strong, cool draft. The fingers returned, more insistent, stroking along the taut skin, subtle dimples sliding down along the neck of his scrotum and then cupping up underneath. The chat could see as his left testicle lifted slightly, not through the contraction of his scrotum but from the pressure of a hand testing the weight of it. Brock's cock jerked in his hand, his arousal spiking, his brain a slurry of lust and greed.

The fingers gripped the neck of his scrotum, slowly tightening around the narrow stretch of skin just above where his testicles hung. The flesh thinned as it was squeezed, narrowed and slowly twisted... and then, impossibly, the edge of the scrotum began to curl backwards, toward the crack in the bench. Brock shifted slightly, unconsciously adjusting his position to accommodate the strange sensation, as his scrotum swayed along the front of the wooden bench.

"Fuck, my nuts are so pent up they're dancing," he breathed, grinning knowingly at the camera. "You enjoying watching my yagballs squirming, desperate to blow their load? Come on, guys, show me how bad you wanna see my fat nuts BUST all over my chest!"

The fingers worked with deliberate precision, threading the soft, stretched scrotal neck into the crack of the bench, feeding it through inch by inch until the narrow opening framed the neck of his scrotum like a bear's jaws. Brock was completely unaware, lost in the building pressure of his impending orgasm, his hand flying over his shaft, his balls swinging heavily back and forth underneath the bench with each stroke.

The chat was screaming now. Not in text... text couldn't convey the energy... but in the sheer volume of messages and tips and emojis. They could see what Brock couldn't: the spectral hands manipulating his scrotum, the ghostly figure crouched right in front of him, invisible to Brock but able to be picked up by his video camera. 

Brock's orgasm arrived with the subtlety of a freight train, his entire body tensing, his toes curling in his big white Nikes. He leaned back slightly, wanting to give the camera the perfect angle, wanting them to see the moment his cock erupted, wanting to capture the arc of his cum as it painted his chest and abs and maybe even his face. As he did, the crack widened incrementally, the weight perfectly balanced to let the last bit of his scrotum slide between the rough wooden slot.

Above him, the overhead light fixture groaned.

Brock was too far gone to notice. His hand moved in a blur, his cockhead swollen and dark, the pressure in his balls reaching critical mass. He could feel it... the churning, the building force, the sense that when he finally came, it was going to be explosive. Usually they would pull up tight against his groin when he came, but they weren't quite able to do that this time. It didn't matter, but it was unusual. Brock couldn't even begin to think about it, not as he felt that wildfire light inside him, his entire body ready to discharge.

"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, here it comes. Watch this. This is gonna be-"

The light fixture tore free from the ceiling with a shriek of metal and a shower of rust. It swung downwards, at first seeming to fall directly towards Brock and his huge dick, but the wire leading back into the ceiling caught it, causing it to swing. It slammed into the metal locker directly across from him, knocking the body cam that Brock had set onto it off to the side, spinning it around to face Brock. 

The impact was deafening, a crash that echoed through the locker room like a gunshot. Brock's eyes snapped open. His body jerked backward in surprise, his hands flying up instinctively to protect his face. He flopped backwards, his legs kicking up, his ass rolling off the bench.

Without his weight, the crack snapped shut. Not all the way... Just enough. Just enough to catch the neck of his scrotum, the skin that had been threaded through the opening, and hold.

Brock's full weight yanked upwards on his trapped scrotum, threading his scrotum up through the clamped crack. His testicles were yanked up against the side of the bench, the huge ovoid bull nuts slammed into the crack, and through it with every ounce of Brock's powerful, heavy, muscular body. The narrow opening couldn't accommodate their size, but physics didn't care. The skin stretched, the testicles compressed, and then something popped through. The swollen, puffy organs in the back of his nuts distorted, rupturing as the twin epididymii were ripped up into the jagged slot. Invisible to Brock but devastating in effect, the epididymis on both testicles ruptured. The delicate coiled tubes that stored his sperm couldn't withstand the pressure, and they split, dumping their contents - weeks worth of carefully curated sperm - directly into the fluid-filled space of his scrotum. The stream could see what happened, as the sudden influx of additional fluid made his taut scrotum swell even larger, the skin stretching to its absolute limit, shiny and dark and pulsing with pressure. The huge nuts tried to follow, but their bulging, swollen mass wouldn't allow them to. The crack was wedged around the stud's cum bags like a vice.

The pain was instantaneous and absolute. Brock shrieked, all pretense lose as his hands grabbed at his balls and found only the neck of his scrotum, pulled as taut as a guitar string down into a crack in the bench. His balls, his huge, swollen balls, were now on the other side of the bench, jammed into the crack, trapped and compressed and wrong.

Brock's cock, caught in the confused signals of trauma and arousal, twitched violently. His orgasm hit despite the pain... no, because of the pain... and he watched in horror and perverse fascination as a massive, thick ropes of fresh hot Brock cum erupted from his cock, arcing up, up, and then down, splattering across his own face and open mouth with an audible wet slap.

The chat went berserk. The tip counter climbed past two thousand dollars. His dick surged again, and another spurt of cum shot out, the Filipino's dick swinging wildly and aiming it at the locker in front of him. The force of it splattering against the back of the locker made an audible bong, and the locked rocked backwards, just an inch.

An inch was just enough. The base of the locker, rusted nearly through from decades of water damage, crumpled, and the metal locker, destabilized and unmoored, tilted forward.

Brock saw it happening. He watched the locker swing forwards and downwards, towards him, seeing it getting closer and closer in slow motion. His cum-covered face tilted up, his eyes wide with understanding and terror, hoping that the perfect arc of the locker would somehow miss what he knew that it would not. 

It did not miss. The rusty, solid steel top of the locker slammed directly into the top of his trapped testicles.

The impact was monstrous. Brock's huge balls, pulled partially through the crack and held in place by the clamped scrotum, were crushed between the falling locker and the unyielding surface of the wooden bench. They compressed, the flesh and tubing and fluid inside deforming under hundreds of pounds of momentum from the locker and tension from Brock's body.

They held. Barely. For one impossible second, Brock's swollen testicles resisted, their internal structure refusing to rupture completely. The pain was beyond description, beyond anything Brock had ever imagined, a white-hot agony that turned his vision black and made his body convulse.

And then he spurted, one last god-damned time.

The delayed orgasm, the one that had been building for three weeks, the one that his ruptured epididymis had partially released... it finished. His cock jerked, his pelvic floor muscles contracted, and everything in his reproductive system tried to force itself out through his urethra in one massive, final ejaculation.

The pressure inside his testicles shifted. 

Just slightly. 

Just enough.

The locker sank down that final crucial millimeter.

And then, both of Brock's magnificent bull testicles ruptured. They exploded simultaneously with wet, crunching, pulping pops that the sensitive microphone on Brock's camera captured perfectly. The internal structure... seminiferous tubules, blood vessels, the tough outer tunica... it all gave way at once, yielding catastrophically, turning from the envy of thousands and the pride of Brock's family into a hot, wet, viscous smear of ruined genetic material and tissue. the back of his scrotum tore and the thick white pulse of nut mush clung and drooled from the rough wooden bench as the locker crushed down in and through the stud's huge nuts.

Brock's scream died in his throat. His body went rigid, every muscle locked, his mind trying to process an injury it had no context for understanding. His cock continued to twitch, pumping out the last of his semen in sad, disorganized dribbles, drooling down the underside of his cock to mix with the blood and other fluids leaking from his ruined scrotum.

The locker hit the floor with a final, definitive crash.

Brock hung there for a second longer, but with not counter-weight keeping him in place, his emptied scrotum flossed through the crack in the wood and the emasculated stud slammed onto the dirty tiled floor behind him. A trail of pulped meat smeared across the top of the bench as he fell down, and literal pounds of ruined flesh plopped from the front of the bench, splatting onto the back of the old locker. 

Above him, behind him, something began to glow.

The ghost materialized slowly, his spectral form drinking in the energy released by Brock's castration like a man dying of thirst. The sexual essence poured off the ruined testicles in waves. Three weeks of stored vitality, the trauma of violent destruction, the perverse orgasm that had accompanied it... it all created a fantastic ectoplasmic soup of masculinity, and the ghost's boneless, translucent mouth opened wide, inhaling it, absorbing it.

The ectoplasm steamed upwards from Brock's mangled ballpulp like luminescent blue mist, rising in tendrils and streaming into Chris's mouth and eyes, curling around and soaking into the ghost's fingers. The ghost's form solidified with each breath, becoming more defined, more present, until his features were clearly visible... the hollow eyes, the wide and manic smile, the possessive way his hands stroked the last dregs of seed from Brock's flaccid cock.

The ruined flesh withered. The cum on Brock's face and chest, the smears on the bench, the pulped remains of his balls... all of it dried and crumbled, turning to dust as what made it sexual was siphoned out of it. The dust drifted away, joining the dancing motes in the sunlight behind them. Within seconds, there was nothing left of Brock's massive genitals except his cock, now flaccid and small, dangling uselessly above a flap of old, useless leather that had minutes ago been a scrotum.

Chris turned toward the camera, his smile widening, and for one perfect second, he was fully visible... a ghost feeding on the destruction of male virility, powered by the violation of everything Brock had been proud of.

Then he vanished.

The chat continued scrolling, the messages a mix of horror and arousal and disbelief. The tip counter sat at three thousand two hundred dollars. The stream was still live, broadcasting Brock's destroyed body to hundreds of viewers who were already screen-recording, already sharing, already turning his castration into legend.

Brock hung there, consciousness fading, pain and shock pulling him toward blackness. His last coherent thought was simple and devastating:

I better get that five hundred fucking dollars.

And then everything went dark.

~*~*~*~*~*~

(An AI'd Brock courtesy of SackStomper! Used as inspiration/reference for his physical traits in the story)