Xiaomei gazed down at Jianhao writhing in agony at her feet, a flicker of pity

stirring in her chest. They'd been together long enough for her to feel a pang of
reluctance, but not enough to dull her edge. Had she not held back, that brutal
kick would've burst his balls and sent him straight to the afterlife. Before
Jianhao, Xiaomei had ruined countless men—tall, short, but always brawny. To her,
they were all the same: no matter how muscular, how towering, once she had their
precious nuts in her grip, the mightiest lion turned into a mewling kitten,
helpless under her whims. She decided their fate—life or death—with a single
squeeze. Most of the men whose balls she'd crushed didn't survive; only one, spared
with a single shattered testicle, clung to life. When the cops found the bodies,
they never suspected a woman could've felled such hulks. Even if they traced it
back to her, Xiaomei could play the victim, claiming self-defense against a rapist.
After all, who'd believe a delicate woman could kill a man just by crushing the
fragile eggs dangling between his legs?

As Xiaomei hesitated over what to do with Jianhao, a gasp shattered the silence
behind her. She spun around to see Yang Gang, Jianhao's boxing teammate, standing
frozen in the locker room doorway. His eyes bulged, taking in the scene. Clad only
in tight blue boxing shorts that hugged his chiseled thighs, he clutched a shirt in
his hands, his sculpted body gleaming under the sunlight streaming through the
windows. His pecs were square and hard, abs carved into a rippling eight-pack,
biceps bulging with veins snaking across them, a picture of raw masculinity. Yang
Gang's jaw dropped, stunned by the sight of his burly brother-in-arms reduced to a
whimpering wreck under the petite Xiaomei's foot. Shock gave way to understanding
as his gaze fell on the spot where her foot pressed—Jianhao's crotch. He knew that
vulnerability all too well. Years ago, at a seedy bar, he'd learned the hard way:
cocky with his strength, he'd underestimated a bargirl who'd grabbed his nuts,
stripped him bare, and nearly pulped his balls with one vicious squeeze. The memory
still burned, and he could empathize with Jianhao's humiliating predicament.

Distracted by Yang Gang's arrival, Xiaomei's focus slipped, her foot pressing
harder than intended. Jianhao's body convulsed violently, muscles seizing, eyes
rolling back to show only whites, foam bubbling at his lips as he passed out cold,
his rugged face twisted in agony, sweat and drool pooling on the floor beneath him.

Yang Gang roared, charging forward and shoving Xiaomei aside. “Jianhao! Brother,
wake up!” he bellowed, dropping to his knees beside his unconscious friend, shaking
his shoulders. But Jianhao was out, his massive frame limp, pecs and abs slick with
sweat, his shorts tented by a still-hard cock, a wet stain spreading where
Xiaomei's kick had landed. Yang Gang's eyes blazed with fury as he rounded on her.
“You fucking bitch, you killed my brother!” he snarled, his voice a guttural growl,
veins popping on his neck. The rage wasn't just for Jianhao—it was years of
bottled-up grief. He'd lost another brother, a cop, during a raid on an underage
prostitution ring. A 16-year-old girl had grabbed his friend's balls, crushing them
with one swift, brutal squeeze. Yang Gang could still see it: his 22-year-old
friend, a strapping man who'd never even slept with a woman, collapsing in the
girl's arms, screaming as her delicate hand pulped his manhood. By the time Yang
Gang pried her off, his friend was dead, face contorted, foaming at the mouth, his
scrotum a ruined mess of shattered tissue. The girl walked free, her age and the
“accidental” nature of the kill shielding her. Yang Gang quit the force after that,
haunted by the truth: countless men had died like this, their balls crushed by
women who played innocent, claiming self-defense or ignorance, knowing full well
the lethal power of a man's weakest point.

Convinced Xiaomei had killed Jianhao, Yang Gang's fury erupted. His hulking frame
lunged forward, slamming her against the locker room wall with a thud. His massive
hands clamped around her slender neck, muscles bulging, veins throbbing under his
skin like steel cables. His fingers tightened, knuckles whitening, as if he could
snap her fragile throat with a twist. His pecs flexed, abs tightening, the thin
boxing shorts doing little to hide the thick bulge of his cock and heavy balls,
swaying with his movement, sweat gleaming on his bronze skin.

Despite the iron grip choking her, Xiaomei didn't flinch. Years of tangling with
men had honed her instincts—this was just another day. She preferred fighting men
over women; their strength, their muscles, their bravado meant nothing once she had
their nuts in her grasp. Unlike the wild, desperate scrapping of women, men were
predictable, their egos and anatomy betraying them. Control the two little eggs
between their legs, and you controlled their life—live or die, it was her call.
Yang Gang's rage was fierce, but to Xiaomei, he was just another bull waiting to be
tamed.

Her hands shot up, fingers clawing toward Yang Gang's eyes. A trained fighter, he
reacted instantly, releasing one hand from her neck to shield his face. Now, with
one hand choking her and the other guarding his eyes, his lower body was wide open,
his muscular legs and bulging crotch completely exposed. Xiaomei's lips curled into
a contemptuous smirk—these muscle-bound idiots always fell for the same trick, no
matter how many times she used it. Her hands grabbed the wrist still throttling
her, yanking it aside with a deft twist. In a flash, she surged forward, her petite
frame diving into his broad chest, pinning his legs together and locking them in
place. His powerful thighs, thick as tree trunks, were useless now, unable to
shield the vulnerable prize between them.

With a viper's precision, Xiaomei drove her knee upward, slamming it into Yang
Gang's crotch with bone-crushing force. She knew this man was no ordinary thug—Yang
Gang was a skilled fighter, lethal in the ring. This was life or death, and she
didn't hold back. Her knobby knee connected with his bulging shorts, smashing into
his heavy balls with a sickening *thud*. The impact was catastrophic, her full
strength channeled into that single, devastating blow, the delicate orbs flattening
against her knee, the thin fabric of his shorts offering no protection. Yang Gang's
body froze, his breath catching in a choked gasp, eyes bulging as the unimaginable
pain exploded through him, a white-hot inferno radiating from his ruined manhood.

Fresh from an intense training session, Yang Gang's muscles were pumped, his limbs
swollen with blood from hours of grueling kick drills. A virile beast in his prime,
his lower body thrummed with potent energy, his masculine prowess unmatched. Now
that he'd caught sight of Xiaomei's tantalizing figure, his cock had inevitably
stirred, half-hard in his tight boxing shorts, the thin fabric doing little to
conceal the heavy bulge of his manhood. His balls, two massive orbs, hung low,
straining against the thin scrotum, their weight pulling the skin taut, leaving
them utterly exposed. When Xiaomei's knee rocketed upward, it was a perfect storm—
her bony kneecap smashed into his unprotected crotch with devastating precision,
engulfing both of his swollen testicles. Through the flimsy shorts, she felt the
sickening give as his massive, virile nuts were crushed, pulped, and obliterated
under her relentless force. The delicate orbs flattened against her knee, trapped
between her unyielding strike and Yang Gang's pelvic bone, bursting like overripe
fruit, their contents exploding in a gooey mess within the ruined sac.

Yang Gang's testicles ruptured, their thick, creamy essence—semen mixed with pulped
testicular tissue and yolk-like contents—gushed out, forced along his vas deferens
and erupting from his cock's slit in a grotesque spray. His shorts soaked
instantly, the sticky, viscous mixture of cum, prostatic fluid, and testicular yolk
seeping through the fabric, a slick trail of ruin dripping down his chiseled,
muscular thighs, the sinews and veins stark against his bronze skin. Despite his
iron-hard muscles—pectorals like steel plates, a back broad as a barn door, and abs
carved into a perfect eight-pack—no man could withstand the agony of having his
balls annihilated. The pain was primal, a white-hot inferno that obliterated all
thought, all resistance.
Yang Gang's tiger-like eyes bulged, veins popping on his forehead like twisted
cords, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. His prominent Adam's apple, wrapped in
pulsing veins, bobbed frantically as his spine snapped ramrod straight, every
muscle in his body locking tight, showcasing the flawless, masculine contours of
his physique. His pecs bulged, nipples hard as bullets, abs clenching so fiercely
the grooves deepened, veins snaking across his biceps and thighs. Then, as if a
switch flipped, his muscles went slack, his iron grip on Xiaomei's arms loosening,
hands dropping limply to his sides. His towering frame crumpled, bones seemingly
unstrung, and he collapsed into Xiaomei's arms, his broad, inverted-triangle torso
slumping against her petite frame. His head lolled, cheek pressed to her shoulder,
sweat-soaked hair plastered to his ruggedly handsome face. His eyes, wide with
shock, disbelief, and humiliating defeat, locked onto hers for a fleeting moment—a
fierce alpha male, felled by a delicate woman in a single blow. But the pain
swiftly drowned out all else, his gaze clouding with raw, animalistic torment,
stripping away his ability to think, to feel anything but the searing agony
consuming his shattered manhood.

Xiaomei didn't pause. Cradling the limp, muscular hulk in her arms, she knew Yang
Gang wasn't just any man—he was a city kickboxing champion, a beast who'd floored
opponents with a single punch. Against such a titan, one strike wasn't enough to
ensure the kill. With a fluid motion, she spun him around, slamming his back
against the wall, her left foot nudging his thick thighs apart to expose his ruined
crotch. His head lolled on her shoulder, unconscious, his chiseled jaw slack, drool
trickling from his lips. She drove her knee upward again, smashing into the pulpy
mess of his scrotum with merciless force. Yang Gang's body jerked mechanically, a
lifeless twitch, his once-mighty frame offering no resistance. Satisfied he was
done, Xiaomei withdrew her knee, letting him collapse like a broken marionette. His
legs buckled, and he sank to his knees, splayed wide, before pitching forward. His
sweat-slicked torso slid down her smooth, pale thighs, his handsome face—eyes
rolled back, tongue lolling—coming to rest on her foot, as if worshipping the very
legs that had sent him to hell. His muscles, still sculpted and glorious, sprawled
lifelessly across the floor, motionless.

Xiaomei stood over Yang Gang's broken form, her delicate frame a stark contrast to
the fallen giant. She knew no man could survive such a double assault on his balls—
not even a battle-hardened fighter like Yang Gang. With a flick of her foot, she
rolled his heavy body onto its back, his limbs splaying out, revealing the full
glory of his physique. His eight-pack abs glistened with sweat, pecs like fortress
walls, biceps and thighs still defined, a testament to his masculine perfection.
But her eyes were drawn to his crotch, where his shorts strained against a nearly
twenty-centimeter erection, the fabric soaked and clinging to his cock, a grotesque
monument to his final moments. She stepped onto his chest, her bare foot pressing
into his pecs, feeling the once-firm muscles yield softly, devoid of life. His
angular face, drenched in sweat, stared blankly upward, eyes white, mouth agape in
a comical rictus of defeat.

Bending down, Xiaomei slipped her hand into Yang Gang's shorts, her fingers
plunging into the sticky, warm mess of his crotch. His cock, still hard, throbbed
faintly, a thick, veined beast capped with a purple, swollen glans. His balls, once
the size of large eggs, were a pulpy ruin, the scrotum swollen and blood-streaked,
slick with cum and gore. One hand couldn't contain the mess, so she tugged the
shorts down, exposing his entire package. Even in death, his cock stood proud, a
stallion's endowment, hard and glistening with fluids. The scrotum, grotesquely
engorged, revealed no trace of the firm, rounded orbs that should've been there.
Xiaomei probed deeper, her fingers sifting through the wreckage, finding only
small, shattered fragments of testicular tissue, slick and warm, sliding between
her fingers like wet clay. The epididymis and testicular contents had separated, a
chaotic slurry of flesh and fluid.
Determined to leave no trace of his manhood, Xiaomei's delicate hands worked
methodically, disappearing into the space between Yang Gang's splayed, muscular
thighs. *Pfft, pfft*—the sickening sounds echoed as she pinched and twisted each
fragment of his ruined balls, starting lightly, then increasing pressure, ensuring
every piece was pulverized. She crushed the shards into paste, kneading them into a
sticky, homogenous mush, her fingers slick with blood and semen. Gripping the top
of his scrotum like a lemon, she squeezed slowly, forcing the viscous mixture of
testicular pulp, blood, and cum out through his cock's slit. The glans pulsed,
oozing a thick, reddish-white slurry that dribbled down his shaft, pooling on his
chiseled abs and coating Xiaomei's hands. She squeezed for a full minute, milking
his sac until it was a deflated, empty husk, the last of his essence drained.

Wiping her hands on Yang Gang's abs, Xiaomei stood, patting his lifeless, sweat-
drenched face with a mocking smirk. “Plenty of big guys like you have gone down to
this trick,” she purred, her voice light but venomous. “No need to feel bad—next
life, don't underestimate a woman.” A twinge of regret flickered in her chest;
she'd heard from her friend Nana, Yang Gang's girlfriend, that he was a beast in
bed, a rare find. She felt a pang of guilt for Nana, who'd surely grieve losing
such a stud, but it was inevitable. Nana would've done the same eventually, once
she'd drained him dry.

Unlike Xiaomei, Nana had a perverse obsession with crushing men's balls, especially
those of muscle-bound hunks. She relished the power of reducing a powerful man to a
whimpering wreck with one hand, savoring their agonized expressions, the trembling
of their sculpted bodies, and the visceral thrill of their nuts bursting between
her fingers. Her boyfriends, all chiseled Adonises, met the same fate: their balls
mysteriously crushed, their deaths dismissed as accidents. No one suspected the
petite Nana, not even the cops, who ruled out female suspects—how could a frail
woman kill such titans? But Nana's delicate hands had ended them effortlessly,
their strength meaningless once she seized their weakest point. It was far easier
than scrapping with women, who fought like wildcats.

Xiaomei glanced at Jianhao, still unconscious in a heap, his rugged face twisted in
pain. She decided to spare him—for now. Finding a man as handsome and enduring in
bed wasn't easy, but betrayal was unforgivable. Slipping her hand into his shorts,
she gripped his balls, squeezing hard enough to make his unconscious body twitch,
his face contorting in torment. “I'll let you live a bit longer,” she muttered,
smirking. “When I'm bored, I'll hand you over to Nana—she'll finish the job.”