Author’s note: I wrote this story before “A Sister’s Guide to Protecting the Family Jewels”. Consider this a bonus side-story or a prequel.
POV is from the Mom back when she was in college:
I remember the first time I met Dimitri. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, with a jawline sharp enough to split atoms, and those abs… good lord. He moved like he owned the world, charisma dripping from every smug grin. Maybe that’s why fate kept aiming straight for his most vulnerable bits: a cosmic joke, balancing the golden boy with humiliating groin disasters.
Looking back, I think that’s part of why I fell for him. There’s something irresistible about a man who thought he was invincible, right up until he was doubled over, clutching his crown jewels and gasping for mercy.
It happened in our second year of college. I sat on the quad with my friend, Chloe, sipping iced tea and complaining about my sociology professor.
“Hey, look,” Chloe whispered, nudging me. “That cute guy’s been staring at you for a while now.”
I followed her gaze. Dimitri leaned against a brick pillar, wearing a tight grey gym shirt that left nothing to the imagination about his chest muscles. Our eyes met, and he winked. Then he spotted a low concrete wall separating the walkway from the lawn.
“Watch this!” was written all over his face as he gestured toward the wall. He decided the best way to get my attention was to show off his athletic prowess. He took a running start, leaped into the air with a confident shout, and tried a flashy vault over the wall.
He miscalculated… spectacularly.
His foot caught the ledge, and instead of soaring over, he pivoted mid-air. He didn’t land on his feet. He landed squarely, groin-first, on the sharp corner of the concrete ledge.
THUNK!
Dimitri’s eyes bulged in absolute horror, as if he had broken something. His mouth snapped open, but no sound came out. He slid off the ledge and collapsed onto the grass, lying on his side.
“Oh my god,” Chloe gasped, though she didn’t move to help. “Did he just land on his…”
I stood up, confused, wondering if the stunt had been intentional. When he stayed motionless too long, I walked over. He was shaking, his fingers clawing into the turf, and he let out a thin, high-pitched wheeze.
“Are you alright?” I asked, peering down at him.
He rolled over slowly and curled into a tight ball, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as both hands flew protectively to his crotch.
“I… ugh… hnnng…” he whimpered, his voice three octaves higher than normal.
I knelt beside him, my eyes taking in every bit of him. He looked pathetic and utterly humbled.
“That looked painful,” I said, unable to hide my smirk.
He looked up at me and nodded. “I… I wanted… to show you something… cool,” he squeaked.
I laughed. It wasn’t a polite laugh; it was genuine amusement. "You certainly did. Y’know, you could’ve just walked over and asked me my name. It’s Elena, by the way."
He blinked, mustering the strength to speak through the haze of agony, and gave a weak, shaky smile. "I’m… Dimitri.”
And that’s how I met my future husband.
Our first date was Dimitri’s desperate attempt to repair his wounded male ego. He took me to a boutique restaurant that bragged about “global delicacies.” He thought ordering the fanciest thing on the menu would prove he was worldly, or at least make me forget his embarrassing first impression.
He looked handsome in a button-down shirt that strained against his biceps, his confidence on full display. I wore a deep red dress that hugged every curve of my bust and clung to my thighs, knowing exactly how to make him sweat.
“Oh, this looks interesting,” he said, flashing me a smug grin and the menu. It showed a silhouetted dish, so you’d have to order it first to find out what it was. “Let’s go for the ‘Chef’s Mystery Special.’ I heard it’s a delicacy from a remote region.”
“I don’t know, Dimitri. I don’t much like taking risks. What if the dish is awful?”
“C’mon, Elena. You only live once. Life is all about taking risks, and I’m an adventurer.”
I hesitated, but his cute, infectious smile made me cave and order the same dish.
The waitress arrived a few minutes later. She looked like she’d been on the job for about ten minutes, young and trembling slightly, carrying two plates with an unsteady grip.
“Here we are,” she stammered. “The Mystery Special for the gentleman, and for the lady.” She set the plates down, and we looked at our dishes, surprised.
My eyes widened. It was a masterpiece of culinary presentation. At the center of each plate sat an elaborate selection of animal testicles. Some were sliced thin and arranged like pale, rubbery flower petals; others were stuffed with savory mashed potatoes and seared golden brown. A few glistened beneath a clear glaze.
Dimitri’s grin vanished. He stared at the plate, his face turning ghostly pale.
“What… what is this?” he whispered.
“The chef’s special!” the waitress chirped. “A selection of bull, pig, and goat testicles! Considered a delicacy in some parts of the world! Many famous queens throughout history enjoyed this dish.”
Dimitri stared at the array of testicles: whole, sliced, stuffed. Then he glanced down at his own lap, as if he’d just been handed a grim prophecy of his own future.
I, on the other hand, was intrigued. I picked up my fork and sampled one of the stuffed spheres.
“Holy shit!” I took another bite. “This is incredible! Dimitri, you gotta try it.”
“I can’t… I can’t eat… balls,” he breathed.
I chuckled. “What happened to the adventurer? You only live once, remember?”
“It’s the guy code!” he hissed, his face flushing. “It’s just… unsettling!”
He stared at the plate as if one of the testicles was his very own.
His horrified expression was, annoyingly, adorable. Naturally, I couldn’t resist twisting the knife.
“Pussy,” I said.
He blinked. “Huh?”
"Pussy," I said. "I thought I was dating a grown man. I never realized you were a pussy who can’t stomach a few meatballs."
For a moment he just stared, then caught on to the game, and his eyes narrowed in competitive defiance.
“Oh, that’s how it is?” He leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do… and it’s working.” I’m no pussy!”
He seized his fork, speared one of the stuffed spheres, and popped it into his mouth.
I grinned and followed suit.
Soon, we were both enthusiastically working our way through the bizarre meal, neither willing to give the other the satisfaction of backing down. Before long, other diners began eyeing our plates with curiosity. One by one, they ordered the Mystery Special too, though the women seemed far more enthusiastic than the men.
Then our waitress returned with two small cups of dipping sauce.
“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I forgot to bring this earlier!”
She was so hurried to make up for her mistake that, as she reached across the table, her hand slipped. A cup tipped over, sending its contents straight into Dimitri’s lap. The spicy-hot sauce drenched the front of his khakis, soaking through the fabric and landing directly on his scrotum.
“Eeeeee!” he screamed through gritted teeth.
The sauce was a high-Scoville nightmare. Dimitri shot up, composure gone, and broke into a frantic full-body dance as his nuts felt like they were on fire.
“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” the waitress wailed, grabbing a handful of napkins and frantically chasing him as he hopped around.
At last, he gave up and sank onto the restaurant carpet, clutching his burning crotch and whimpering as the fiery sensation refused to let up.
“My baaaaalls…” he whimpered, his voice cracking like a preteen in a school play.
It goes without saying that our date was cut short, and the restaurant gave us compensation in the form of a free meal. Dimitri apologized for the worst first date ever, but I told him I enjoyed it; every bit of it.
After many more dates and funny accidents, we became official after our first kiss. From then on, he’d come by my dorm room to hang out or help me study for my exams, even though he didn’t know much, and I’d support him as he trained or played football.
I was his biggest cheerleader, literally. I spent every game in the stands. I loved watching him play; he was a force of nature on the field.
The final game of the season was a nail-biter. With ten seconds on the clock, Dimitri took the handoff, burst through the defensive line, dodged a tackle, and dove across the goal line for the winning touchdown.
The crowd erupted. Dimitri leaped to his feet, roaring in triumph, pumping his fists in the air. He looked like a god of athletics.
Then the cheerleaders swarmed the field. One blonde, with a predatory grin and a miniskirt, made a beeline for Dimitri. Before he could blink, she launched herself at him, legs around his waist, and kissed him like she was auditioning for a soap opera.
I felt my blood boil. I didn’t care that it was just “celebratory.” I saw how she held him, and I saw that Dimitri didn’t push her off right away.
I didn’t cheer. I stood up, my face a mask of cold fury, and walked out of the stadium before the celebration even ended.
An hour later, Dimitri found me in the parking lot. Still in his jersey, helmet swinging from his hand, he wore that “winner’s glow,” completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.
“Elena! Where’d you go? Did you see that play I made?” he beamed, stepping toward me.
I didn’t look at him. I kept my arms crossed, my eyes fixed on the horizon. “I saw the kiss, Dimitri.”
His smile faltered. “What? Oh, that? Elena, come on, it’s just a tradition. She was just excited. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It meant you liked it,” I snapped, turning to face him. “You looked pretty comfortable with her wrapped around your waist.”
“I didn’t even have time to think! It happened so fast!” he pleaded, stepping closer. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry. You’re the only one I want. Please don’t be mad.”
I stared at him. He looked handsome, fit, and genuinely desperate for my forgiveness.
“I am mad,” I said, my voice low and deliberate. “I’m extremely mad, Dimitri, and an apology alone isn’t going to fix this.”
He looked panicked. “Anything. I’ll do anything. Just tell me how to make it up to you. I’ll buy you jewelry, I’ll take you on a trip, I’ll… I’ll do your laundry for a month!”
My eyes locked onto his groin.
“Fine,” I said, stepping closer. “I want you to feel the same hurt I felt seeing you kiss that bitch.”
Dimitri swallowed hard. “O-okay… you want me to watch you kiss another guy?”
“No, you idiot!” I said, annoyed. “I want to kick you in the balls!”
Dimitri froze. He looked from my face to the space between us, trying to work out whether I was serious. The idea clearly frightened him, but beneath his surprise, I saw him weighing the request and the trust it would require.
“You… you want to what?” he nervously asked.
“You heard me,” I said, then softened my tone. “If you truly love me, then you’ll let me kick the shit out of your balls.”
He hesitated, studying my face. At last, he nodded, not because I had cornered him, but because he wanted to turn our ridiculous argument into a private, absurd offering proving his love for me.
“Alright,” he said, still nervous. “I’ll do it.”
I gestured at his crotch. “I don’t want your cup protecting them. If you’re truly sorry, you’ll offer them up unguarded.”
His face went crimson. He looked around the parking lot to make sure we were alone. Then, with shaking hands, he reached for his waistband. He slowly lowered his football pants and his underwear in one fluid motion, letting them drop to his ankles.
He stood there, completely exposed from the waist down. He was impressive; his cock was thick and heavy, but it was his testicles that commanded attention. They were large, pendulous spheres, hanging low and heavy in a wrinkled, pale scrotum. They looked so soft, so vulnerable, and so utterly out of place against the backdrop of his muscular thighs.
For a moment, I forgot the argument entirely, completely mesmerized by the sight of his junk. Then he cleared his throat, pulling me back to the situation I’d somehow talked him into.
“G-good. Now, spread your legs and hold up your dick,” I commanded.
He obeyed, stepping apart and presenting his bare, defenseless jewels to me. He was trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked like a sacrificial lamb, offering up the most sensitive part of his being to his goddess.
“Are you ready?” I asked, pulling my stronger leg back, shifting my weight and lining up my shot.
“Y-yes,” he squeaked, his voice already rising in anticipation.
I paused, giving him a moment to comprehend what was about to happen. Once I’d focused all my strength to the end of my foot, I launched it forward with everything I had.
WHOMP!
My instep connected squarely with the center of his scrotum, flattening his testicles against his pelvis with brutal force. It was the kind of hit that didn’t just hurt; it resonated. I could almost feel the outer shells of his nuts crunching under the impact.
His eyes crossed, and his mouth twitched as drool dripped from the corners of his mouth. His entire body went rigid as if he had been electrocuted. Then, the wave of pain hit his brain.
“O-O-O-O-OOOooooooooh!”
He collapsed backward, hitting the pavement, legs splayed wide. He clutched his ruined groin, his fingers cradling into the swollen, pulsating flesh.
I stood over him, trying to keep a straight face and hide how much I enjoyed it. He was twitching violently, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. I could see his testicles through his fingers; they were already turning a vivid, angry red, swollen and throbbing with agonizing pain.
“Do you regret kissing that girl now, Dimitri?” I asked, leaning over him.
“Hnnng!” He nodded, his stomach churning as the nausea of a direct testicular hit washed over him. He looked pathetic. He looked broken. And he looked absolutely perfect.
“Good,” I said, reaching down to pat his cheek. “I forgive you. You can put your pants back on.”
It took him ten whole minutes nursing his nuts before he regained enough motor control to pull his underwear back up. Which was more than enough time for me to admire his beautifully sculpted cock. He spent the rest of the evening walking bow-legged as he escorted me to my dorm.
As I walked beside him, watching every wince and awkward shuffle, I knew, right then and there, that he was the one. Not many men would literally offer up their balls to prove their love. That’s when I decided: he was husband material.