My old man had some good qualities, but he was also extremely narrow minded about a lot of things. He wanted only two kids; a boy and a girl, but instead he fathered non-identical twin boys. He still wanted a girl so he continued to plow Mom mercilessly, the rutting clearly audible throughout the house, finally to the point that she died young.

Once widowed, he undertook the rearing of his two offspring; my brother as a boy and me as a girl. He didn’t let my hair grow long or make me wear dresses or anything so obviously demeaning, but his message was still clear that he wanted one boy and one girl. My brother was herded into sports and given boy-type toys like a cap pistol, football, and BB gun. I received a dollhouse, tea set, and many coloring books with which to amuse myself, and was encouraged to seek recreation indoors instead of outside. Once I was old enough I was assigned the housekeeping duties and my brother the outside yard work. Looking back, it amazes me that I hadn’t been given my own pink-wallpapered frilly-curtained bedroom.

Dad waited until I was eleven years old before he started in on my balls. I had just gotten home one afternoon when he came into the bedroom and ordered me to strip. “Get down on all fours on the bed.” He ordered as soon as I was standing nervously in front of him, bare-assed and wondering what was going on. I was in the Sixth grade then and accustomed to showering with two-dozen other prepubescent kids, including my brother, but I didn’t run around the house naked. It had been years since he’d bathed me and even though we were an all-male household we respected each other’s privacy and weren’t in the habit of sharing our nakedness.

“Spread your legs a little and look straight ahead” I had sneaked a quick glance back between my legs at the little nutsack hanging down like that of a young puppy. I lifted my head just before the world exploded in a flood of pain and nausea. I had taken light pops to my balls by then and had inflicted others on my classmates, but he must have nailed me full-force and then held on and dug his fingers in and squeezed my testicles within millimeters of destruction.

I puked up the remains of my lunch and was only then aware that I had also peed and deposited a turd on my bed. “Get this mess cleaned up,” Dad ordered, “and then come to the kitchen. It seemed like an hour before I could even straighten up, let alone strip the bed, but I finally pulled on my skivvies, piled the soiled bedding in the washing machine, and sort of stumbled into the kitchen.

“Having testicles involves a tremendous amount of pain, Boy. You would have figured that out on your own, but I just speeded up the learning process.” He gave me refresher courses, sometimes every month, sometimes missing a month, and I got used to showing up at school with bruised and swollen balls. My brother and I didn’t compare notes, but I just assumed that he was receiving the same tutoring. It didn’t occur to me at the time that I was the only kid in the school that received that kind of Special Education.

The next indignity came a year and a half later, just as I was entering puberty. The assaults to my balls had continued, and right after one session Dad noticed something different. “You’re getting hair, Boy,” he said, squinting at my naked crotch through his reading glasses. I could have told him that my youthful eyesight had picked up the smoky haze, fine as silk and nearly invisible, a month ago, but I didn’t want to bring it to his attention. Other kids in my Seventh grade class were also afflicted and the common opinion was The More The Better. “Just stay there boy, I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, leaving my bedroom. I wasn’t going anywhere; I was becoming somewhat inured to the pain, or more likely my balls were becoming numb and I didn’t puke or pee myself like I used to do but the pain in my belly still immobilized me for a while.

Dad returned a few minutes later carrying a safety razor and his shaving mug. “No! Please!” I cried as he brushed the soapy foam onto my crotch.

“Be still, Boy,” he calmly said. I wanted to flee or at least roll over or turn away, but disobedience carried a severe penalty. Four strokes of the razor transformed me from a Man back into an insignificant Boy. The process was repeated as often as needed and was eventually expanded to include my legs and armpits. The shaving was an indignity and embarrassment without equal, but it didn’t slow the onset of puberty and by the end of the school year I was a genuine freak: A tall gangly thirteen year old kid with oversize genitals and a breaking voice but still devoid of body hair.

My brother could have come to my aid, and together we may have been able to stem Dad’s mistreatment of me, but by then my brother was just as screwed up as Dad and had became another nemesis. He reveled in my discomfort and he never missed an opportunity to drop his pants and run his fingers through his now-thick pubic hair just to let me know that he was the better man. He and Dad used to pass a worn copy of Playboy magazine back and forth, whispering comments about the pictures that tented both of their trousers, all the while shielding the magazine from my view.

Looking back, I should have reported the situation and perhaps gotten myself and Dad into some kind of counseling, but my confidence and self esteem were so low that I felt certain that if I spoke up I would be placed in some kind of evil foster care situation, so I continued to absorb the abuse.

“You should consider letting me castrate you,” Dad said one evening right after busting my balls and shaving my crotch. “David is much more suitable than you for carrying on the family name, and you are so defective in every way that you shouldn’t be allowed to father children. You know about how that stuff works, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I answered. I was fourteen then and knew about sex, making babies, and screwing, but all I had been able to do so far was jack off. The guys in my PE class all knew, thanks to my brother’s hints, that I was a weird dork that shaved his own crotch. This information seemed to have been shared with most of the girls in the school and none of them would have anything to do with me.

“It would just take a few minutes and you could sleep through the whole thing. Afterwards you’d never need to worry about shaving or anyone hurting your balls. I really think you should let me do it.” There was no sign of humor in his voice: He was dead serious about wanting to cut my nuts off.

I thought about it all right. For all of about five seconds before hollering “No way!”

“I could do it anyway, you know,” Dad said. “As your father I have the god-given right to do anything I want with my offspring. David and I could just hold you down and castrate you right on the kitchen table. You wouldn’t be asleep then, of course. I’d probably have to go to jail for a year or two, and you and David would have to go to an orphanage or something. David would be okay there but you, without any balls, would be different. Every other kid there would use you like a woman. Maybe you’d like that?” I’d found a magazine in an alley that showed a young guy getting his ass reamed by an older man. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself, nor he seem to enjoy the taste of what was being forced into his mouth in another picture.

I pulled on my pants and bolted out of the door, not even bothering with my shirt or shoes, and spent the next hour giving Dad’s offer some serious thought. He was right; he could forcibly castrate me and I’d have no choice. I couldn’t run, as I had no friends to harbor me, nor aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents with which I could seek refuge. I had no money or assets with which I could live on my own. I’d have to go to the authorities and then it would be Dad’s word against mine and I’d end up right back where I started. It didn’t appear that I had any choice but I pondered the matter for a full hour and then went back home, now resigned to my fate.

Dad didn’t push me the next day; he knew that I needed time to consider his offer. I fixed an extra special dinner that night, washed the dishes, then went to bed early. I woke up two hours later and looked over at my brother. He was snoring loudly, dead to the world, and didn’t respond when I tried to wake him. Dad was in the same condition. The drug that I’d slipped into their dinner had worked as advertised.

I got a bowl of water and Dad’s shaving mug and the same razor he’d used on me, and gently pulled back the covers from my sleeping brother and eased his skivvies down around his ankles. He didn’t even stir as I removed his luxurious bush, and he even spread his legs for me as I worked his testicles to the bottom of his scrotum so that I could apply the rubber tourniquet from the first aid kit. I don’t know how dad was planning on doing me, but I simply took the hunting knife that he’d given David and quickly severed the entire scrotum, balls and all, and placed it into my brother's left hand. I put the knife in his other hand and climbed into my own bed and masturbated slowly, the first time I’d ever done so lying on my back in bed.

I woke early the next morning, masturbated again, then waited for dad to come in and rouse us like he did every other school morning. I was still ‘sleeping’ when he came in and saw the carnage, and didn’t ‘wake up’ until I heard the ambulance’s siren. I gave the police my carefully rehearsed Didn’t Hear A Thing spiel and then left for school.

“I want you to mow the lawn, Son,” Dad said when I got home from school. It was the first time he’d ever called me Son. “Don’t worry about the housework, David can do that as soon as he gets out of the hospital.”