This story is the second part and conclusion of the standalone adaptation based on Chapters 12–15 of the Ascension series. Part 2 is light on story and essentially all ballbusting.
This post also features the alternative ending to Chapter 15 of the Ascension series for those who are already familiar with the original story.
Jonas’s heart hammered against his chest, his manhood in ruins. His half-brother, Ingvar, had seized complete control of the fight, now torturing him with glee.
Jonas’s right testicle was a throbbing, misshapen crimson mass, his left testicle, impaled and leaking nut pulp on the stone floor.
The wounded demigod could barely stand but his tormentor would allow no respite from the endless torment.
The gelding knife flickered like a serpent's tongue twice, each motion precise as an archer's arrow.
SCHLINK! … SCHLINK! …
Jonas barely registered the twin stings at first, but then he felt it: the slow, warm trickle down his inner thighs. His hands moved instinctively around his battered testicles, but the pressure only made things worse.
A thick, yellowish-gray stream oozed between his knuckles where Ingvar's blade had opened neat slits along the ventral surfaces of both orbs. The consistency was wrong. It was not the expected creamy whitish-pink solid matter, but a chunky, pinkish fluid marbled with yellow: A grotesque chowder mix of half-formed seed and liquified nut pulp. Jonas's tears streamed down his face as he watched his own testicular matter drip onto the stone between his feet in glistening strands, each droplet stretching like molasses before breaking free.
Drip…drip…drip…
Drip…drip…drip…
His fingers trembled where they cupped the ruined organs, the delicate membranes sagging like burst wineskins beneath his touch. More of the liquefied pulp escaped through the incisions in a slow, relentless seep that coated his inner thighs in viscous warmth. The smell of the gonad soup, metallic and musky but with an underlying sweetness made his empty stomach lurch.
Ingvar gazed at the spectacle with fascination before he reached out to press a calloused thumb against Jonas's left testicle. The pressure forced another globule of semi-solid matter through the wound, this one streaked with whitish pink strands of ruptured seminiferous tubules.
SSQQUUIIISSSHHHHH!! …. PLOP!!
It landed with a wet, sickening plop between Jonas's bare feet, quivering like fresh gelatin before settling into a shapeless mass. "Like squeezing juice from lemons," he mused as Jonas vomited bile from the pain onto the floor.
Ingvar took three deliberate steps backward and watched Jonas kneeling, his hands cupped beneath the ruin of his own gonads like a beggar catching alms. "I guess your breeding days are over," the Breedmaster laughed. Jonas’s hands covered his balls in a vain attempt to keep his nut guts in the orbs but the liquefied testicular matter spilled between his fingers and covered the floor.
Drip…drip…drip…
Drip…drip…drip…
Drip…drip…drip…
Hoisting himself up from the ground, half conscious but unyielding, Jonas whisper an ancient incantation of the Norse gods. The first syllable cracked the air like splitting ice—a primordial sound that sent torch flames recoiling. Blood between his thighs began swirling counterclockwise, drawn by some unseen force toward the ruined flesh that was his groin. Ingvar's smile faltered when Jonas’s severed spermatic cords suddenly writhed like beheaded serpents, from their ragged ends fleshy matter began to form.
Jonas could feel the tautness of the testicular membrane stretching to accommodate swelling seminiferous tubules, the intricate dance of sperm cells dividing in their delicate cradle. His scrotum twitched eagerly beneath them, the puckered flesh beginning its slow ascent to seal his rejuvenated bollocks away.
Jonas gasped as sensation flooded back between his legs. He could feel the heavy, vital weight and warmth of his plums returning.
Then Ingvar moved.
The Breedmaster's foot swung upwards with the deadly speed of lightning, his bare heel crashing onto Jonas's family jewels with catastrophic force.
SSPPPLLLOOOOOSSSSHHHHHH!!!!
SSPPPLLLOOOOOSSSSHHHHHH!!!!
The impact sounded like a ripe melon dropped from battlements. Gelatinous spatters arced across the chamber walls as Jonas's scream tore through the air. Pulped seminiferous tubules erupted between Ingvar's toes as the ruined gonads flattened into a grisly pancake of ruptured membranes and viscous seed. Woozy and barely conscious, he fell and landed on his back, legs wide open.
With an evil grin, Ingvar stomped on his half-brother’s ruined bollocks and twisted his foot viciously, grinding the remnants of the mostly destroyed left testicle into vicious paste against stone.
Sloooshhh…squirt..squirt
Jonas’s screams could have woken the dead as he sat right up in an attempt to cover his groin but it was too late.
The Breedmaster's rose his foot after finishing off the left orb and stomped down with equal fury, crushing the battered but somewhat intact right orb against the cold floor.
SPPLLAATT!
A geyser of pulverized reproductive matter sprayed in all directions, coating both demigods in nut guts. Jonas's scream choked off as his body convulsed, hands scrabbling uselessly at the Breedmaster's ankles while his ruined gonads oozed between the man's toes like overripe fruit.
Ingvar leaned into the pressure, his heel rotating slowly to mash the last coherent strands of seminiferous tubules into pinkish slurry. "Your magic is strong, brother," he mused, flicking a strand of gelatinous pulp from his instep. "But not quick enough." Withdrawing his foot, he revealed the grotesque aftermath—two severed spermatic cords and twin craters of pulverized flesh where Jonas' testicles had been.
Ingvar looked at the bottom of his foot in the flickering torchlight. Strands of Jonas's pulverized testicles stretched between his toes like pinkish cobwebs, the sticky remnants clinging stubbornly to his skin even as they began to cool. The Breedmaster watched in fascination as the gelatinous strands stretched and snapped, leaving stalactites of ruined seminiferous tubules hanging from his foot.
He slid his index finger along his sole and scooped up a glob of reproductive goo. Without hesitation, Ingvar dragged his tongue his tongue along his finger and scooped up every morsel.
The flavor exploded across his palate— fresh venison, mead, and the taste of sweet concentrated seed. He laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls as he sucked his fingers clean with grotesque relish. "Your tadpoles taste sweeter than any maiden's cunt, brother.”
Ignoring his half-brother, Ingvar continued greedily scooping viscous strands of pulverized testicular matter into his mouth while Jonas lay sprawled across the stone, breathing in ragged gasps.
Although the arena seemed to tilt around him and his vision blurred at the edges, through the haze he spotted what might be his final chance. Summoning what little strength remained, he dragged himself across the floor, inch by agonizing inch, toward the pouch resting at the edge of the arena.
Jonas's fingers trembled as they fumbled with the pouch's drawstrings. When he finally yanked the pouch open, he placed his hand in the bag and took out Theseus's severed cock. The Spartan's member twitched weakly at Jonas's touch, as if remembering its former owner's indomitable will.
Ingvar threw his head back with a groan as he consumed the last of Jonas's essence. "Gods, brother," he rasped, thumbing the bulging veins along his stretched sac. "I could taste your…”
Ingvar's eyes widened but it was too late. Jonas' throat bulged obscenely as Theseus' severed cock slid down his esophagus in one giant swallow. The Spartan's divine flesh hit his stomach like molten iron, sending a surge of power coursing through his veins. Jonas arched backward, as twin energies, Greek resilience and Norse fury, collided inside him.
The glow started in his ruined groin first. Pearlescent strands of sinew wove themselves around empty air, knitting a new foreskin on his mutilated cock while his scrotum puckered tight around reforming testicles, plumper than before. Jonas could feel each individual seminiferous tubule snapping into place like overstrung harp strings, his balls refilling with a wet, slurping sound that echoed through the chamber.
Ingvar stumbled back, wide-eyed as he witnessed’s Jonas’s renewal.
Jonas's azure eyes ignited with the fury of a winter storm. The Norse warrior's skin took on the pallor of midwinter ice, and underneath a tempest of divine energies coursing through his veins. When he exhaled, his breath crystallized in the air between them, each frozen particle humming with latent power.
Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose, his rebirth finally complete.
Then approached the stunned Ingvar.
Jonas lifted his finger from the wreckage of his own pulped testicles, the digit glistening with yellow-streaked pulp. He dragged his tongue along the mess slowly, the taste of mead, brine, and iron bursting across his tastebuds.
"You're wrong about me being weak, being able to defeat father, virtually everything. But you're right about one thing," the Norseman grinned, swallowing the last viscous strands."I do taste delicious."
Ingvar's freshly swollen scrotum tightened at the taunt, his oversized testicles rolling against each other with the weight of stolen divinity. "I'll harvest you, just like I did father and all who dare challenge me," he sneered, venom dripping in his voice.
Jonas laughed. "I'll devour your cock and balls right in front of you. Then I'll take back father's cock."
Ingvar's grin widened as he spun the gelding knife in a lazy arc. “Empty words. It is my destiny to inherit the throne."
The torchlight carved shifting shadows across the chamber as Jonas and Ingvar circled each other. Beads of sweat trailed down both demigod's face, their eyes narrow and focused, ready to pounce.
Ingvar attacked first—a brutal overhead slash with the gelding knife aimed at Jonas's throat. Jonas ducked with inhuman speed, his spine bending like a drawn bowstring. The blade whistled past his ear, close enough to shear off a lock of sweat-damp hair. Before Ingvar could recover, Jonas pivoted on his heel and drove his knee upward with the full force of a winter storm.
SSMMMAAACCKKKK!!!
Jonas' knee connected with a sickening sound that sent Ingvar's swollen scrotum flattening against his pelvis like an overripe melon hit by a warhammer. The Breedmaster's breath exploded from his lungs in a strangled wheeze, the delicate membranes of his gonads stretched to near-bursting before rebounding with a sickening squelch. Jonas felt the twin orbs deform against his kneecap, their pliant warmth yielding under impact like overfilled waterskins.
Ingvar's legs buckled instantly, his knees hitting the stone floor. The gelding knife slipped from his fingers, skittering across blood-slicked stones as both hands flew to his ruined groin. His testicles swelled and throbbed between his fingers, their veined surfaces already purpling with trauma.
Jonas didn't hesitate. He sent a devastating kick between his brother's legs, a vicious rising strike catching Ingvar directly beneath his swinging scrotum.
SSSMMMAAACCCCKKKKKK!!!
The impact lifted the Breedmaster clean off his knees, sending him airborne for a heartbeat before crashing back down to his knees. His engorged testicles flattened to a fraction of its normal width before it swung wildly like pendulums gone mad, before slapping against his inner thighs with wet, meaty smacks.
Ingvar’s hands moved toward his groin but Jonas was faster. Jonas’s fingers dove between the Breedmaster’s thighs like an eagle striking prey, sinking knuckle-deep into the Breedmaster's swollen scrotum. The skin burned fever-hot against his palm, the twin orbs trapped in his iron grip. Ingvar’s eyes widened as Jonas clenched his fist—not enough to rupture, but enough to make the tadpole factories bulge obscenely.
"Up," Jonas growled, hauling Ingvar upright by his testicles with a vicious yank. Ingvar screamed as his nutsack stretched obscenely to its anatomical limits. The Breedmaster's legs scrambled beneath him like a newborn foal’s, desperately trying to get on his feet and to slacken the tension.
Jonas's fingers continued to tightened around Ingvar's swollen scrotum, his knuckles whitening as he applied pressure in slow, measured increments. The Breedmaster's screamed as his swollen testicles continue to deform. Thousands of tiny microscopic ruptures occurred in each testicle as Jonas continued his relentless massage of Ingvar's bollocks.
“Looks like you can dish out pain but not take it," Jonas mocked. One small squeeze and his half-brother’s gonads would explode.
But instead Jonas released his grip.
Ingvar collapsed like a sack of grain, his body hitting the stone with a meaty thud, on the precipice of consciousness. His swollen testicles bounced against the cold stone floor as he landed on his back.
The respite was short as Jonas planted a foot on his brother's inner thigh and pushed outward with deliberate cruelty, forcing Ingvar's legs wider until his swollen scrotum stretched taut across the stone floor.
Jonas crouched over him, knees bracketing Ingvar's heaving ribs. He caressed his half-brother’s scrotum, feeling the traumatized orbs shift beneath bruised skin like overripe melons rolling in a sack. Each battered testicle pulsed fever-hot against his palm, their veined surfaces stretched taut with stolen divinity and so engorged they barely fit in their own sack.
As Jonas fondled the nutsack, the Breedmaster's shaft rose thick and proud from its nest of copper curls, its girth tapering from a root as wide as Jonas' wrist to a plum-tipped crown. A prominent dorsal vein ran along its underside like a braided rope, throbbing visibly with each ragged breath Ingvar took. Jonas leaned closer, nostrils flaring at the musk rising from his half-brother’s groin, the scent of honey-mead and burnt amber. The foreskin had drawn back on its own, revealing a glistening slit that spasmed weakly as another viscous droplet swelled at the tip.
Jonas' tongue darted out and lapped the pearly bead. The taste burst across his palate like fermented summer fruit, tart and heady. He sealed his lips around the crown with deliberate slowness, feeling the hot pulse of Ingvar's heartbeat against his tongue as he took the first inch. The skin burned almost too hot to bear, the salt-tang of precum flooding his mouth as Ingvar's cock twitched against his palate. Jonas hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing a ragged moan from his brother as the shaft visibly darkened with engorged blood.
Jonas swallowed Ingvar to the root in one smooth motion, his throat opening effortlessly around the swollen shaft. The suction was relentless, each pull dragging Ingvar's swollen crown against the roof of Jonas' mouth. Chills shot up the Breedmaster's spine. Every vein, every ridge stood out in perfect relief against Jonas' stretched lips, pulsing hotly against his tongue like a living thing.
Ingvar's fingers scrabbled weakly at Jonas' shoulders, torn between pushing away and pulling deeper. A garbled noise escaped his lips—half-protest, half-plea—as Jonas hollowed his cheeks.
Jonas' throat convulsed around Ingvar's pulsing cockhead as the first hot jet of seed erupted against his uvula. It was thick, with the taste of salted honey and mead left to ferment in oak barrels. His brother’s taste was near identical to his own tadpoles. He swallowed his half-brother’s seed instinctively, feeling the viscous load slide down his esophagus in a warm, living rope that seemed to pulse all the way to his stomach. Ingvar's hips jerked erratically beneath him, the Breedmaster's thighs trembling like birch saplings in a gale as his balls contracted violently against Jonas' chin.
The second spurt came harder, flooding Jonas' mouth with such force it leaked from his nostrils in thin, milky strands. His jaw ached from the stretch, the ridge of Ingvar's corona digging into his palate with each throb of the swollen shaft. Jonas worked his tongue along the throbbing underside, milking out every drop as the Breedmaster's seed pooled under his tongue, coating and sticking to his molars like tree sap. He could feel the stolen divinity in it, the same power that had swelled Ingvar's balls to obscene proportions now flooding his own veins in liquid fire.
Ingvar's scream echoed off the stone walls as his orgasm peaked, his cockhead flaring impossibly wider against Jonas' stretched lips. Ropes of cum painted the back of Jonas' throat in rapid succession. The sheer volume defied nature—a torrent that would have drowned lesser men, but Jonas drank it down like a man dying of thirst.
Jonas drained his brother’s power and added it to his own. Jonas could feel it happening: his seminiferous tubules stretching to accommodate Ingvar's divine essence, the weight of it dragging his scrotum lower between his thighs until the skin pulled taut as a drumhead.
Jonas licked his lips before he stood as stared his brother in the eye, his blue eyes mirroring his own. Jonas could see his half-brother’s eyes widening horror; Ingvar knew what was about to transpire.
“Please don’t!” Tears streaming down his face as he begged for mercy. “You’ve stolen my seed. Just leave me whole.”
Jonas answered the plea by placing the heel of his foot squarely atop the center of Ingvar’s engorged scrotum. Jonas grinned maliciously. He paused for a heartbeat, letting the Breedmaster feel the calloused skin of his sole on his purpled nutsack.
Ingvar closed his eyes. There would be no forgiveness.
Jonas surged upward and slammed his leg down with the unstoppable force of a collapsing mountain!
SPLOOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!
The sound was a wet, catastrophic eruption. Under the crushing weight of the stomp, the delicate membranes of Ingvar’s testicles detonated. The internal pressure caused the scrotum to split as a violent geyser of white seminiferous tubules and grayish-pink nut guts exploded in all directions, coating everything in a warm, viscous slurry of ruined masculinity. On a microscopic level, Ingvar’s tadpoles violently thrashed on the stone floor before laying still. A massacre of unborn warriors.
The scream that tore from Ingvar’s throat was not human. It was the sound of a demigod discovering the source of his power reduced to goo under the foot of his half-brother.
Jonas remained standing on the remains, curling his toes and breaking apart the remaining chunks of his brother’s pulverized nuts.
Sloooosh … slooosh … sloooosh
“You’ve turned me into a steer!" Ingvar wailed, his voice cracking into a pathetic whimper. “You’ve taken everything from me!”
Jonas’s grinned. "There is one thing left to take, brother," he whispered. He placed his calloused hand and clenched the base of his brothers girthy shaft with an iron grip. With a violent surge of effort, Jonas slowly wrenched the member upward and away from the body.
During the process, Ingvar’s body violently orgasmed! Despite the catastrophic ruin of his tadpole factories, the remnants of his seminal vesicles and prostate contracted, squeezing out what fluids remained. A surge of thick, translucent fluid erupted from the glans with the force of a tidal wave! It was an eruption of masculine juice that splattered across both men in a wide, chaotic spray
But it was only a sterile, hollow deluge. With the testicles pulverized into a slurry beneath Jonas's heel, there was no seed left to carry, only the sweet but thin nectar.
Jonas continued to pull his half-brother’s cock, his grip never slackening. He felt the thick, pulsing root of the member anchored deep within the pelvic floor. Ingvar continued to scream as his body was pulled off the floor by his shaft, his cock turning into an angry shade of crimson.
His cock continued to spasm uncontrollably. Every twitch resulted in a fresh torrent of sticky, sterile nectar spurting from the slit. It was as if Ingvar’s cock was trying to breed with Jonas’s forearm in its final attempt to fertilize anything and everything before the connection was severed forever.
And with one final, wet, shuddering throb that sent a geyser of fluid spraying across Jonas’s chest, the last remaining tendons snapped with a sound like a wet bowstring breaking.
RRRRIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPP!!! …. SSSNNNNAAAAPPPPPPPPP!!!!
A wet, tearing sound akin to a sail ripping in a storm filled the chamber!
Jonas stepped back, holding the prize aloft. He marveled at the sheer, obscene majesty of the member. Even severed from its source, the cock remained turgid, a heavy slab of divine muscle warm in his hand. The shaft was thick, mapped with a network of pulsing, violet veins that coiled around the girth like ivy on an ancient oak. The skin was a deep, healthy bronze, and at the summit, the glans sat like a proud, velvet crown, still twitching with a residual life of its own.
Ingvar’s eyes rolled upwards, retreating into the depths of his skull as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Jonas took a moment to breathe before gathering his trophies and placing them in his leather satchel. He retrieved his father’s massive, pulsating member and Ingvar’s turgid, velvet-crowned cock. The two gargantuan phalluses pulsed in a strange, symbiotic harmony in the pouch.
With the heavy leather satchel of trophies slung across his shoulder, Jonas turned away from the unconscious husk of Ingvar, approached and opened the heavy oak doors to the Fertility Chamber.
There a dozen women, the finest beauties of the town, lay draped across velvet-covered chaise lounges and oversized beds like scattered petals of silk and lace.
Jonas looked at the women with soft smiles, ready to be filled with seed. A slow, predatory grin appeared on his face.
Without another word, he entered and closed the heavy door behind him.
No comments:
Post a Comment