"Handsome lad," I commented, as he pushed the print back in, but not before I had a good look at the boy - handsome indeed, with a somewhat round face and a neat Ivy-type haircut for his fair hair. He wasn't smiling, though, which even boys are usually made to do for formal portraits. I noticed, in my quick glance, the crest on his jacket. Obviously well-to-do at some prep school; much better off than any of MY charges would ever be. I wondered at his age, his countenance a mystery; he could have been ten, twelve, or fourteen. It was impossible to tell.

"My nephew, Simon," He commented quickly, and that was the end of that topic. “The organisation which I represent, together with Major Riche here” (the Major nodded acknowledgement) “operates loosely under the auspices of UNICEF, without being part of it. We operate more or less independently.

“Now, information made available to us, Dr Geller, indicates three items of interest. Firstly that you operate and manage an orphanage, which is self-funding. Is that the case?” He waited for my answer, his head to one side.

Is nothing secret any more? How did UNICEF, or whatever, get to know about me? Clearly some of my “visitors” had been plants – C I A agents or similar. Biting back what I really wanted to say, “Sure, there’s an orphanage” I replied. “The costs are met from the income from my practice as a doctor. That’s how it was when I bought the practice. There’s no grant funding or any of that stuff”. (I had the gravest doubts that these people had anything to do with UNICEF but kept them to myself.)

“I understand” said Lord Manningham. “The second piece of information we hold, is that you carry out “special surgery” on a regular basis. Do I need to elaborate?”

I knew just what he meant. He meant I’d been castrating boys. He was smiling again but in a nasty way, as if he was listening to a smutty joke. I felt cold all over, but had a reply ready. “It’s not illegal” I said. “It’s sanctioned by law in most countries in the West. In the US by…………and in the UK by………….(I reeled off the relevant statutes and dates). “Also in France, Greece……….”

Manningham cut me short. “I know all that” he said. “As you say, neutering boys is within the law in most countries. I know that you carry out the operations under strictly clinical conditions. No one could possibly object. And what I said wasn’t meant as a criticism. In fact it’s a recommendation. It’s really the bedrock on which my proposal is founded, Dr Geller, and that is………….”

“I can hear the truck, Lord Manningham” the voice of Marcia interrupted. “Good” said that man. “I knew they wouldn’t be far behind. We’d better go and meet them.”

So once more out into the searing afternoon heat, just as a 3-ton covered truck lumbered into the compound and halted with a scrunch of tires on the gravel. Manningham spoke to the driver, a Chinese, who unlaced the canvas flaps at the rear, and called out something. I saw a small figure jump down, then another, and another….

There were sixteen all told, mostly about eleven or twelve, but some of them no more than eight. All were very dirty and all looked exhausted. “Who are they, and why have you brought them here?” I demanded. The girl, Marcia, snorted. I could cheerfully have hit her.

“We’ll discuss that indoors” Manningham replied. “Meanwhile they are in urgent need of a meal, as they’ve been on the road for twelve hours. And they could do with a wash. Will you arrange that, please?”

Moments before, Martin – my partner - had come into the compound and had heard the last bit. I beckoned him over. “Just do it!” I whispered. “I’ll explain later”. I turned to Manningham. “Doctor Lindenbaum has it in hand” I said. (I didn’t elaborate. Martin is, of course, not an MD but a PhD, and his subject is mediaeval European history).

As the boys filed past, one stood out from the others. Not just because he was taller, although this was true. His features belonged to south-east Asia but his hair was golden and his eyes cornflower-blue. The effect was very beautiful. He shot me a quick glance as he passed, and his lips parted in a smile. He could not know that it was I who would castrate him, although this was true also.

“Right,” said Manningham, when, once again, we were back in my sitting-room. “Just to explain the last little performance.

“The organisation I work for, is concerned with the welfare of children, in the broadest sense of the word welfare. Three days ago, acting under instructions, we visited a camp at……………”(he named a small town up near the border). “It was supposed to be being run by the Peace Corps.

“The reality was that the Peace Corps moved out years ago. So far as anybody was running the place, it was a bunch of middle-aged hippies (don’t laugh, Riche, you saw them for yourself). Irresponsible flower-children complete with lank grey pony-tails.

“We got the place closed down – it was falling to pieces and insanitary. Our hippy friends packed up their belongings and left, together with wives, partners, children, grandchildren and what-have-you. They left sixteen boys, who seemed to have no relations at all. No girls, but then that’s not unusual.

“Why bring them to me?” I asked.

“Let me tell you a story. Or rather, introduce a question. What do you know about the Middle East? Probably only that the countries of the Middle East produce far and away the greatest proportion of the oil that sustains Western economies. I don’t need to explain why the West needs to preserve good relations with those countries, at all costs. At - all - costs.

“The organisation to which I belong – and Major Riche – is a very small cog in the machine that ensures that those good relationships continue.

“The Middle East is an important part of the Arab world. Arabs value the purity of their women very highly indeed – you can have no idea how highly. This, centuries ago, gave rise to a culture in which eunuchs were a significant part. Where women were attended by eunuchs their purity was guaranteed.

“For centuries the main supply of eunuchs came from the interior of Africa. These days African statesmen rant on about the export of slaves to the West Indies and the American South, omitting to mention that they’d been selling their own children in the opposite direction long before Columbus ever sailed or the first cotton-bush was planted.

“The African supply has long dried up, although there are reports of black eunuchs now and then. But there is an alternative supply source, and an enormous one. Here in south-east Asia, decades of war have resulted in thousands of parentless children. The Arab world needs them and is willing to pay very high prices. As for the boys, if left where they are they will probably starve. The Arab world offers them a new life – albeit at a certain sacrifice. Given the choice I don’t think the boys would object.” (That nasty smirk again, I noticed). “I look on myself as the facilitator.”

“By facilitator” I said “you mean that you are engaging in selling boy-eunuchs into slavery in the Middle East”.

“Don’t be so censorious” said Manningham sharply. “We know you’ve been selling neutered boys to anyone who would pay your prices. The only difference is one of scale. The principle is just the same. And, by the way, we know about the “personal services” that some of your boys are trained to provide. That’s illegal in any penal code”.

I’d nothing to say to this. Just across the border, sex with under-age children, whether boys or girls, was termed child-rape and was a capital offence.

“I suggest we take a short break” said Manningham. “Some of us need to freshen-up. May we trespass on your hospitality, Dr Geller?”

Meaning, could I give them all rooms? I couldn’t really object. Manningham’s outfit knew so much about me already that I could hardly disguise the fact that the orphanage had a visitors’ wing with five en-suite rooms. I paged Martin and got him over. On their way over to the visitors’ wing I saw Major Riche pluck at Martin’s sleeve, seemingly making an urgent request.

I wandered along to the children’s quarters. The dining-hall was empty: Martin had seen that the new arrivals had been fed, and afterwards shepherded them into the shower-room. Shouting and laughter showed that they were still in there having fun, so I went and took a good look.

The boy with the Scandinavian colouring, combined with Oriental features, was enjoying a shower on his own. I studied him. He had a nice body, and his very fair skin and golden hair would be a good selling point. More importantly his private parts were ideal for the operation they ought to undergo to increase his value: a slender penis, a loose scrotum, very thin-skinned, and well-defined little balls. They would be easy, so easy, to remove, to keep his penis limp, and prevent him ever going with a girl. A happy dream indeed!

But the dream would have to wait. Gloomily I left the shower room, went to my office and closed the door. Clearly I was going to be railroaded into some sort of deal. My hands would be tied and there was nothing I could do about it.

I turned on the power to the CCTV monitor. All the en-suite rooms had cameras disguised as part of the ceiling-fans. The Major had been given Room 2. Predictably he wasn’t there alone. His frantic signalling to Martin could only have meant that he wanted a boy. Martin had shown the Major a selection of photographs of all the available boys. Predictably the Major had chosen Jimmy. Jimmy was one of the boys I’d bought, so to speak, along with the practice, and Jimmy was the name I’d given him.

The gallant Major was putting his shoes on. Jimmy was at the washbasin, washing his bottom. Clearly they’d finished what they’d been doing, and I was in no doubt what that had been. The Major was one of those men who prefer to have sex with neutered young boys, and Jimmy was the only one on offer, who wasn’t intact. I’d gelded him soon after I'd taken over. Then I realized something as the Major moved on the screen. "Major, was it?" I murmured, checking the time lapse video - sure enough, it had been on and recorded the show that had just obviously taken place in the Major's room! I popped the tape and saved it, sure that it might come in handy for a rainy day, so to speak.

But why had I neutered Jimmy? For the sole reason that I had wanted to.

There’s always something satisfying in gelding a boy like Jimmy. I’d discovered this in my old practice. You’d see him some time afterwards, and you’d smile inwardly, knowing that the sturdy 12-year-old on the other side of the street had only a toddler’s penis and no balls or scrotum, and would never get some silly little girl’s knickers off, would never give her a baby that no one wanted. And that was the direction Jimmy was heading in.

Whenever I saw Jimmy, in the pool, in the shower, getting ready for bed, he had a hard-on. Even walking around the place, he showed a telltale bulge in the front of his shorts. All that sexual precocity got to me, somehow. I decided to put an end to it. He should have a harmless, hairless little winkle between his legs for the rest of his life.

That was the first and last time that I ever used force, when castrating a boy. Jenny and Mary, my two assistants, had hauled Jimmy into the operating room, kicking and biting like a wildcat. After they’d pulled his pants down, then for the first and last time I’d used the restraints: the shackles at the corners of the op. table, that held Jimmy spreadeagled at the wrists and ankles, the clamp that held his penis out of the way. I’d even gagged him.

I was on the crest of a “high” at the thought of what I was going to do. My hands were shaking so much that I had to hold my breath as I stuck the novocaine needle into Jimmy’s groin. Then the agonising wait for him to numb-up. Seconds only, but it seemed like a century before I could move on to the next stage.

Another pair of hands sometimes helps and Mary was a skilled assistant. But she was as overcome as I was, and pulled so hard on the boy’s ball-sac that she must’ve come close to snapping the cords. As for me I was juicing so freely that by the time I’d cut out the boy’s balls and stitched up his scrotum, my jeans and under-panties were soaking.

He’d cried, afterwards. Some boys do, when they realise that their future manhood has gone beyond recall. But as he healed, his personality changed and he was as as enthusiastic as a passive sex-partner as he’d been active before.

Room 4 had been allocated to the girl, Marcia. But the screen showed an empty room and I switched to Room 5, which was Manningham’s. This was by no means empty. Manningham and the girl were nude – or nearly. She had opened her legs, and Manningham was kissing her private area through her tiny pink briefs. After a few minutes of this she got up, knelt at Manningham’s feet and began to do a blow-job on him. I wondered just HOW old she was...if she was even legal. Probalby not.

So that was what her “first overseas assignment” involved! I’d seen enough and switched the monitor off, resetting the recorders. With nothing better to do I wandered back in the direction of the showers, finding the golden-haired boy still there.

“Hello” I said. “I’m Dr Geller. What’s your name? Can you understand what I say?”

“Course I can understand” replied the golden-haired boy. “My name’s Ricky Silva”.

I was dumb-struck. So few of the local children spoke any English that I’d never figured on one who spoke it fluently. The boy was drying himself now. I took one look at the tattered vest and shorts he’d arrived in. “Wait” I said. I ran to the stock-room, picked out a new vest and shorts. “Put those on” I told him.

“These for me?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Gosh!”

“And you’ve no parents, or relatives?” I went on.

Ricky shook his head, slowly. “I remember a lady, once, but she went away. And there used to be a gray cat, but I’d no food for him, so he ran off. But I know my name’s Ricky Silva. Just look”.

With his old clothes Ricky had a grubby supermarket shopping bag, which no doubt held all his worldly possessions. From this he retrieved, faded but legible, a United Airlines baggage tag. His name was clearly printed by the flight number.

United! Could this possibly mean that the child was part-American? It was unlikely I’d ever know. But he was speaking again “Can I stay here, Dr Geller? I like it here!”

“You’ll be staying here for a little while” I said. “Then you’ll move on and be placed with people who can care for you and give you a new life. First, though, we have to make sure you are fit and well. Then, before you leave here, you’ll have a little operation. You’ll be castrated. All the boys who arrived today will be castrated”.

“Me, as well?”

“You as well”.

“Why will I have to be castrated?” asked Ricky. (He didn’t sound distressed by the idea, just curious.) “And that means that my balls will be taken out, doesn’t it, Dr Geller? Will it hurt, Dr Geller?”

“It’s the law” I replied. “In the country where your new home will be, boys like you are not allowed to get married or have children.” (As I said this, I hated myself for having signed up to the Federal policy that was turning our country into a human stud-farm. Only a few selected males were kept intact for breeding, the rest were gelded. That’s what it amounted to. At the same time I just loved castrating boys and Ricky was an ideal subject as I explained).

“After you have been castrated” I went on “you won’t be able to get married or have children. You know what it means “to have sex”, don’t you?”

Ricky nodded. “Boys and girls do it together. First they snog and kiss a lot, then they get undressed. The girl spreads her legs and the boy puts his willy into her – her place, and something comes out, and that something makes a baby. I’ve not done it yet but it’s supposed to be nice”.

“That’s right” I said. “Now, boys who have been castrated aren’t able to have sex, and so, naturally, they are not able to make girls pregnant. That’s because the boy’s willy – let’s call it his penis – doesn’t grow any more, and it always stays soft. You understand?”

Ricky nodded again, so I went on.

“There are some other effects too. After a boy has been castrated his voice doesn’t change – it stays high. He doesn’t start growing a beard or moustache, and his body doesn’t sprout hairs in other places, like on his chest or under his arms, or in that other place”.

Ricky listened avidly to all this. “But it is done on my privates, isn’t it, Dr Geller? I’d have my balls taken out?”

“Ricky, you got it in one,” I said. “And answering your second question, no, it won’t hurt at all. “You’ll have a local anaesthetic in the top of your leg; that may scratch a bit but it wears off very fast. Then I have to make two little incisions to take out your testicles. They are on cords, and I have to tie them off before separating you from them. Then two little stitches, one on each side, and it’s all done”.

“And I get to keep my – my penis?” Ricky asked.

“Of course! You’ll always need your penis, for peeing through!” (I didn’t add that his penis might shrink and that he’d need to pee sitting down like a girl).

“And you promise, it won’t hurt?”

“It may be a bit sore afterwards” I said “when the local anaesthetic wears off. But there are analgesic creams you can use to take the soreness away. And in two or three days you’ll have healed up and you won’t feel any different from the way you do now”.

Ricky was quiet for a bit. “And afterwards” he said, thoughtfully “if I’m with a girl and she wants to do it, I’d just have to say “Sorry, but I’ve had that operation that some boys have, and I can’t? However much I want to do it, I just can’t?”

Yes, you poor little dear, I thought. You can strain, and strain, and strain, but nothing you can do will ever make your penis go hard again. But I kept that to myself.“That’s just what you’ll have to tell her” I said. “Very mature of you, to think like that” .

Then he dropped his bombshell. “Dr Geller” he said. “Could you do it now, like this afternoon? Now that I’m used to the idea? Later, I might not want to”.

“Why yes, Ricky” I said. “If that’s what you want”.

Ricky beamed. “C’mon then, Dr Geller. Take them out right now”.

With Ricky being so co-operative I decided to do without any assistance. I hurried him along to the operating room and told him to take off his shorts. “Up on the table, then” I said, and gave his bare behind a playful slap. I should have swabbed his penis and balls with surgical spirit, but decided against it: they were relaxed and soft and would be easy to work on, just as they were.

With Ricky lying face –up on the table I took a hypo spray to numb his genital area, and pressed it down to the right and left of his scrotum. It wouldn't deaden the testicles, but made it possible to painlessly inject the local anaesthetic that would take away all sensation. The big needle came next, but it took me a minute to find the right spot in his groin before I could depress the plunger.

"You don't have to use the toilet, do you?" I asked. Sometimes boys had accidents during surgery, probably from fright, but I digress. Ricky said he already went. “Can you feel anything down there, Ricky? I added.

Ricky was trying to look down, propped on his elbows, looking at his genitals. “No, I can’t feel anything down there" he declared, then poked his scrotum to test the theory. " Oh ,wow!"

“You don’t look very comfortable, Ricky” I said. “If you really want to see what I’m doing, I’ll give you a pillow”.

" Yes, I think I'd like a pillow now" he said. Keeping an eye on him I produced a pillow, and fluffed it so he would be at a comfortable angle to observe.

" You may not want to look" I warned him. “There will be blood."

" S'ok" replied Ricky, curious about what was happening. "I don't mind."

At this point it was often necessary for an assistant to pull down on the boy’s scrotum before any incisions were made, but the skin of Ricky’s ball-sac was so thin and translucent that this wasn’t necessary: the small blood-vessels showed up clearly. I made the first cut just level with the base of Ricky’s penis, and the second in a corresponding place on the other side. Some doctors preferred to open up the scrotum all the way down to the base of the crotch, but I wasn’t one of them.

A few tiny beads of blood appeared at the edges of the incisions, and they quickly subsided. Ricky’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. His doctor had just cut him open, and he was watching.

I dabbed the blood away from the scrotum with a wad of cotton, then very gently eased one testicle out through the incision. A cluster of capillaries clung all around it, and I cut them away. I attached two soluble ties to the cord and snipped it through. Halfway there!

Ricky gasped as I dropped the testicle into the kidney-tray. “ They come out that easy?" he asked, amazed at the speed at which things were happening.

"Almost over" I reassured him, and patted his knee.

I gently squeezed out the remaining testicle. Looking into Ricky’s face I reminded him of the truth. “I can put this back, Ricky, and stitch you up, and you can still become a man. But if I complete the operation you know what will happen. You’ll no longer be a boy – not completely”.

Ricky’s voice came from far away, it seemed. “Take it right out, please, Dr Geller”.

I cut away the sinuous veins that fed the testicle, tied the cord and made the final cut, separating Ricky from the joys and thrills of teenage sex, and from all hope of ever becoming a father. It just remained to trim up his scrotum and draw the cut ends together with soluble stitches, so that they would quickly knit together. I found one of the contoured gauze dressings I always used, and secured it in place with surgical tape.

“All done, Ricky” I said, and helped him scramble down off the table. I led him into the sick-bay and motioned to him to lie on the bed. “You’ll stay here tonight, Ricky” I said. “I’ll see that somebody brings you a meal. There’s iced water in the fridge and there’s a toilet through there if you need one. Try not to disturb the dressing, and get some sleep if you can”.

“ I feel strange, Dr Geller, very strange” Ricky said, as I pulled down the shades. “You’ll be quite okay soon” I said, ruffling his fair hair. I thought he might look nice with a haircut like the boy in the 8x10 photo. I kissed him and hurried out.

Back in the sitting room I found my less-than-welcome guests waiting. Martin had provided them with drinks. The men each had a Scotch-on-the-rocks: the girl something long with soda and orange-peel. Manningham carried straight on from where we’d left off.

“Right, then, Dr Geller. I would expect today – and the next few days – to set a pattern for the future. This is how I see it.

“On Day One an intake of boys arrives. You will see that they are bathed, and given a change of clothing, and the start of regular meals.

“On Day Two you will give them a full medical check-over and treat any obvious ailments: infestations and so on. Particularly, you must check feet, genital areas and anuses. Anything of a serious nature you will report to me, the boy to be quarantined pending further instructions.

“On Day 3, continue with the Day 2 program as necessary.

“On Day 4, all boys passed as fit and free from infection will be neutered. And on the subject of neutering you’d be strongly advised to use modern methods. Have you seen this?”

“This” was a cutting from a German medical journal. It gave an update of the use of a drug called “Neutersol Plus”, that had been developed for neutering pre-teen boys. The article was well illustrated with diagrams showing how the drug was to be injected into the boy’s balls. It was a method I understood in principle but had never used.

There were two full-page, full-frontal photographs were of a sturdy pre-teen boy: very good looking, with fair hair cut in a straight bob, and a beautiful face. “Down there” he was still hairless, but with a plump well-filled scrotum and a neat little penis that might have erected to three inches: that magical stage, just before puberty, when a boy’s sexual curiosity is greater than his ability to do much. It’s the ideal age for castrating a boy, because his curiosity remains afterwards – only now he is unable to do anything at all.

The second picture showed the same boy after treatment with “Neutersol” when his penis had retracted into his body as far as the glans, and the outline of his scrotum was barely traceable. Both before and after, his expression was the same: serene and quietly smiling. I wondered why they had neutered him. Maybe he became a pretty page to some spoiled brat of an oil-sheikh’s daughter. I wondered if she ever cock-teased him, spreading her legs and jeering at his impotence.

“The chief advantage of using Neutersol” said Manningham “is time. Using surgical methods you lose three days at least, more like a week, before the boys are fit enough to travel. This way you lose no time at all. The process itself takes seconds rather than minutes, and when he’s been done, the boy just pulls his pants up and carries on with his lessons, or games, or whatever.

“Anyway I presume that you will use Neutersol. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing an initial pack of 100 doses in the trunk of the car. You can re-order as and when necessary”.

Liberty indeed!

“On Day 5 the boys should rest. You will inspect them for early signs that the drug is taking effect. The literature will explain what you should look out for.

“By now you will have received instructions about passing the boys on. By Day Six or at the very latest, Seven, transport will arrive and pick them up. From that point they cease to be any concern of yours. Any questions?”

“What’s in all this, for me?” I asked.

“You should keep a record of out-of-pocket expenses. I will give you a table showing a daily meal allowance per boy. Clothing should be included at actual cost, also any medicines and so on. You will account to me on a 4-weekly basis and I will see that you are reimbursed without delay, by BACS transfer, and in US dollars”.

“And that’s all?” I asked. “Just out-of-pocket expenses?”

“Not all” said Manningham. “From every intake of less than 20 boys you may select one, whom you may keep, or dispose of as you wish. From every intake of more than 20 boys you may select two”.

“Does that include today’s intake”

“Certainly it does”.

“Unconditionally?”

“Unconditionally”.

“Then I have to tell you” I said “that I’ve jumped the starting gun”.

“You’re saying that you’ve selected a boy?”

“Yes”. (I didn’t add that I’d already neutered him).

For a moment there was silence. Then “I don’t see how we can object,” said Major Riche (his sole contribution all day). The girl, Marcia, said nothing but scribbled away industriously on her pad). “Out of interest, which one?” the Major asked.

“The fair-haired one” I said. “His name’s Ricky”.

Marcia snorted again – an unattractive habit. “That freak!” she commented. “You ought to cut his balls out right away. After all, who’s he going to fuck? Cut them out, burn them out, who cares?”

Manningham silenced her with a glance. “I agree totally with Major Riche” he said. “You would have been free to select a boy once we’d departed. Talking of which” (turning to the others) “I feel we’ve detained Dr Geller long enough, and we ought to make a move”.

“Don’t you need me to sign any papers?” I asked. It was all getting a bit unreal. Signing something would have brought matters down to earth.

“Sign papers? My dear lady!”

So that was that. The trio assembled their few bits and pieces and returned to their car. I’ve seldom been so pleased to say good-bye to anyone. The cloud of dust from their tires blended into the afternoon haze, leaving me with a bulky cardboard box – a hundred doses of Neutersol – and fifteen little boys who, all unsuspecting, were to have their balls pricked.

I went in search of Jenny, to sort out empty beds for the new arrivals. Jenny was a highly qualified nurse, but she had an irritating foible. Conscious that her roots were in the sunshine belt (she still had a Mammy in up-country South Carolina) and her great-great-grandparents had been slaves, she used to put on the kind of dialect that you might have expected from a minor character in a “B” movie about the Civil War.

“Miz Kristin!” she began, rolling her eyes. “I just done take his tea to that whitey-boy in the sanatarium. And” (more eye-rolling) Jeez, Miz Kristin, did you just now geld that whitey-boy?”

“That boy” I said “has had a bilateral orchiectomy at his own request. At his own request, Jenny. He is to be allowed peace and quiet, do you understand?”

“Ah sho’do, Miz Kristin!”

That was enough. “Jenny, you can stop that silly performance here and now. I’m not Miz Kristin, I’m Doctor Geller. And we’ve fifteen other boys to look after so come along with me at once”.

“Yes, Dr Geller” replied Jenny meekly. The Deep South act was over – till next time!

For the next three days the four of us – that includes Mary and Martin – had our work cut out. Inspection of the boys’ feet revealed nothing more serious than ingrowing toenails, and their teeth showed no defects that a course of orthodontics wouldn’t cure – assuming anyone was willing to foot the bill. None of the boys - mercifully – had head lice. That might have been due to the liberal use, prevalent among even very poor people, of coconut oil as brilliantine. Still, all that shaggy hair was an invitation for lice and the boys were all given short buzz-cuts to prevent that.

Moving on to more intimate areas, I carefully inspected the boys’ genitals, finding nothing worse than a lot of smegma. (None had been circumcised). Then, after each and every one had been given a filling soap-and-water enema (possibly their first ever) I did as instructed and had a good look at their anuses. Both the eight-year-olds had threadworms, but easily cured. They were given a stiff dose of Santonin and bedded down for the rest of the day. If any of the boys had been sodomised, it had left no lasting symptoms that I could see. I made a note that they'd probably all need a good rinsing out again shortly, if nothing else, to get them used to it. Most of them hadn't thought much of their first enema.

And so to Day 4. I decided – I’m not sure why – to leave the boys’ emasculation till the evening. I took Jenny and Mary aside and explained that, although up till now we’d castrated boys just as you would a horse or other male animal, things had moved on. Scientists had invented a drug which could be injected into a young boy’s balls in order to make them dry up. The effect was just the same as cutting them right out.

Then we all took a good look at the Neutersol guidelines, how you were supposed to grasp the boy’s genitals in your left hand, stretching the skin of his scrotum tight over the balls and using your middle finger to hold his penis out of the way, whilst your right hand was used to inject the drug.

It looked easy and it was. At eight o’clock we always gave the boys a bedtime drink, and this time it contained a mild sedative. At ten, we began work. In an adjoining room we positioned three low chairs. The boys, heavy with sleep and barely conscious, were placed on these, sitting well forward, with their pants down and their legs apart, to have their balls pricked. We – Jenny, Mary and I – took five each. By eleven we were through. As the man had said, the process took seconds.

Next morning there were no signs that anything out of the ordinary had happened. The same sounds of flushing from the toilets, the same shouting and splashing as fifteen small boys got washed and dressed. Possibly they were just a tad quieter at breakfast time. “Check for early symptoms” the instructions had read, so before letting the boys off the hook, to spend the day as they liked, I lined them all up at the surgery door for a look-see. I followed the book and massaged their testicles with my fingers to make certain the drug penetrated the tissues, and that was all I could do. Not that I was ever in much doubt. Clinical trials had shown that the failure rate was less than one in a million. In three weeks, perhaps less, all those little balls would be like raisins.

And what about Ricky all this time? We’d left him in the sick bay four days ago. Well, I’d decided on leaving him there. The morning after his operation I’d found him with his head buried in a book. A little later, I found him in the garden. He’d got hold of some plain paper from somewhere, and was sketching, with a rare delicacy, the view over the bay. I’ve noticed this before, with neutered boys – losing their testosterone source brings out the artist in them.

I have the drawing still.

Next day, nothing happened. It was stiflingly hot and the boys sat listlessly about. Mid-afternoon, the phone went. A brief message: Expect transport towards five p.m., have shipment ready. Shipment indeed!

Nearer five-thirty than five, a white mini-bus drove into the compound. The young European man who came to meet me brought a note from Manningham, requesting me to give Captain Jones every assistance. If his real name is Captain Jones, I thought, I’m the Queen of Sheba.

I went indoors and called to the boys, who soon began to file out towards the waiting bus. I felt a pang of conscience that I’d never bothered to learn any of their names. Suddenly I was aware of a small figure beside me. It was Ricky. “Hello, Ricky” I said. “Come out to watch the sun go down?”

Ricky nodded. “It’s very beautiful” he said. “I should like to try and paint it”.

“Maybe you can tomorrow” I said. “I’ll find you some paints and brushes. How are you feeling today – any pain?”

Ricky shook his head. “None at all, now. It throbbed a bit, at first, but I’m better now”.

“And no problems with wee-ing?”

“No, none”.

But still Ricky looked worried. I said nothing, hoping he’d tell me of his own accord what the problem was.

“Dr Geller, I’ve been talking to another boy” Ricky said at length. “A boy called Jimmy. He said that now I’ve been castrated, like him - you’ll be training me. When I asked him what for, he said that I’d have to be trained to take men’s cocks – men’s penises, up my bottom.

“Why have I got to have men’s penises up my bottom, Dr Geller? I don’t understand”.

I put an arm round his slim shoulders and drew him towards me. “With any luck, Ricky,” I said “you won’t ever have to”.

Easy to say, but could I keep to it? Perhaps, if Manningham was good on his end of the bargain. Then again, even if he weren't, there were the video tapes.

The last boy climbed aboard the bus. The door closed. Ricky and I watched the bus as it drove away with its human cargo, clean, fed, newly clothed – and gelded.

Only they didn’t know that yet.