CBT (cock ball torture, if you’re in the know) is one of my absolute favorite BDSM activities. This has already become Daddy lore, but in case you haven’t spent hours obsessing over my website and stalking me on social media, you may not know that I started my cock and ball tortures at a young age.
A very young age, actually.
My first experiences with CBT were of kicking boys in the balls on the schoolyard, starting in elementary school. I was a bit of a bully, and in particular, I really enjoyed physically dominating boys. I had a couple of go-to’s: kicking them in the shins, pushing them around, punching them in the stomach, putting them in a headlock, spanking their bottoms, and really, any form of degradation I was in the mood for that day (and I was always in the mood).
Kicking ranked the highest out of anything. Everybody knew I was a kicker. I took pleasure in running up to some poor soul and feinting a step backwards to mimic a kick, only to watch them flinch in fear, and then running away, laughing at how much of a wimp the boy was. I learned the power of fear quite early on.
But of course, I didn’t always feint the kick. I more often than not followed through. And when you kick enough, and boys try to run away from you enough, the likelihood of your foot slipping and following through to the balls increases. It increases until the point of it inevitably happening.
I remember the first boy I kicked in the nuts. Let’s call him W. W was annoying. I really didn’t like him, and most of the time, I just wanted him to shut up. I thought he was a whiny little bitch, and I really enjoyed watching him cry. One particularly annoying day, I ran up to him to kick him in the shins for the umpteenth time, when he tried to cross his legs together out of gut reflex. His knees caving inwards caused my foot to slip upwards, sliding all the way up to his balls.
Looking back on it now, it was a relatively light kick, but it was enough to take the wind out of him. His reaction was absolutely comedy gold: he crossed his legs and his eyes went askew in pain, and then he crumpled to the floor like a wet napkin.
I remember feeling shocked and then trying to hold back my delight. I’m sure I didn’t do a very good job concealing my pleasure. His reaction was so immediate and overwhelming that I adored every second of it. I wanted to do it again…and again…and again…and again… and I just stood there in contained glee, watching him struggle on the playground cement, reveling in the power I had over him. I felt alive.
It became apparent to me right then and there that the male genitalia held some kind of mysterious power over men, and I wanted to know all about it. What did it feel like? How much did it hurt? Why did it hurt? How many ways could I make it hurt? How far could I push it?
As I came of age, my questions about cock and ball torture never ended. I was far more interested in the torture of cocks than the pleasure of them. I wanted to bite my partners’ cock and testicles during sex to see what reactions that would evince out of them. I had one partner who wanted me to pull and stretch his balls during sex, and I went about it with utter joy and determination. I watched videos of martial arts practitioners who were repeatedly kicked in the balls with complete fascination. And I really, really, really wanted to grab someone by the nuts and use them as a punching bag.
Imagine my delight when, upon becoming a Dominatrix, I realized that I could torture people’s cock and balls professionally.
Once “Professional Cock and Ball Torturer” was on the table, I set about my ProDomme career making sure that it was an area that I would specialize in. And either way, it was rather hard to avoid. Should it be an option, my hands would inevitably find my way down to the man’s genitals, ready to squeeze, grope, and bust. I almost always included some element of CBT bondage within my sessions. And of course, the mirthful glee on my face was unmistakable whenever given the opportunity to kick a man in the nads.
It’s the little things in life that bring the most joy. And in my particular case, it’s cock and ball torture.
W was extremely scared of me in the years following that fateful kick. I had turned from scathing little girl to ballbusting serious bitch in his eyes in under a second, and I knew it. And even though it was an accident, he and I became extremely aware of the weakness that men had in between their legs. The knowledge of that gave me more power in his eyes, and he knew that I was ready to abuse that power.
In high school, W went through puberty (but was still annoying, by all means). He grew taller and bigger than me, but I still spent those years tormenting him. Despite me staying the same size since sixth grade and the our difference in sizes increasing with each day, I still held the control over him. We shared an understanding. Because he was a man, he would always be weak to me. I knew exactly where his vulnerabilities lay.
This fascination in contrasts – in the weakness of the male sex through their low-hanging fruit – has stuck with me to this day. It was a revelation of sorts. As men grew bigger, their balls remained ever-so-weak. And I, having a Napoleon complex of sorts after having my growth spurt in sixth grade and then never growing again, found gendered vindication through their genitals. There was always a way to bring men down to my level (or lower). In my youthful obsession with CBT, I felt like I had stumbled upon a secret of the sexes: that men were weak.
And it was through exploiting this weakness that I found joy – pure, unfettered joy. Because truly, genitorture is one of the many twisted balancing acts nature has gifted us with. To give a man strength and size, but then to take it away through a cripplingly obvious weak spot. What could be more right in the world?