Made Safe, part 2

So that was that. What Simon and his friends lacked in balls, physically, they made up for in the abstract.

Max Riche had not lied, when he’d said that afternoon by the river “They’ll come to you”. No time had been wasted in giving “The Westward Ho Training Centre” a website, and the care-industry had quickly identified it as just another agency to whom the buck could be passed. The very next morning my bedside phone rang. It was the duty corporal, Corporal Jameson, in Reception. “Lady to see you, sir” he reported. “Lady with three young boys”.

“At this hour, corporal? It’s 0430 hours for God’s sake!”

“Just off the overnight train, sir”. “Alright” I said. “I’ll be over”.

I pulled some clothes on and hurried over to Reception. I was greeted by a slatternly young woman Her ID card gave her name as “Margy Townsend” and her status as “Senior Social Worker” and the name of her local authority – in the Lowlands. She opened with “Commodore Donaldson, can we get this over quickly, please – I’m dying for a fag”. (Her clothes reeked of stale tobacco). I didn’t correct her promotion of me three rungs up the Navy ladder – Commodore indeed – why not Admiral and have done? Stupid bitch.

She had some papers for me to sign. There was a receipt, made out to “Commodore Donaldson, of Weston Centre” (no address.) No wonder, I thought, that records went missing. I scribbled something illegible, which I could afterwards deny. Her three charges were dropping with fatigue. All of them were about twelve. They smelled stale, and wore the defeated look of children who have been passed from pillar to post all their lives.

The awful Margy was running a comb through her greasy blonde hair. I decided to get rid of her. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you anything to eat” I lied “but the kitchen doesn’t come to life till seven.” (In fact I could get hot food round the clock if I wanted.) “If you return to the station there’s an overnight stall that does good coffee and bacon butties and things. And don’t take the first train out – it stops all over the place. The 7.30 is non-stop to Carlisle and gets in ten minutes earlier”.

“I’ll say cheerio then, kids” Margy said, and went out into the empty street. I turned to my three new protégés, who hadn’t said goodbye in return. “Had anything to eat lately?” I guessed what the answer would be.

“Cuppa tea” said one. “Bag of crisps” muttered the second. The third just glared at me from black-rimmed eyes.

“Well, we’ll soon add to that” I said, and led the way into the building. The boys goggled at the swimming pool and sports hall as we passed. “What’s this place then?” asked one suspiciously.

“Just a training centre” I said. “Like Outward Bound in some ways. There are some other boys here but they’re asleep.”

The kitchen was coming to life but sleep was more attractive than food. I took them to the dormitory and told them to turn in just as they were, saying I’d call them at eight. I studied the papers I’d been given. These showed that until a few weeks ago each one had lived with a foster-family, where arrangements had irretrievably broken down. The social services safety net had gathered them in, but the game-plan, clearly, was to pass them on again as fast as possible.

Their names were Glen, Wayne and Gary, but to the end of their four-week stay I had difficulty giving the right name to the right one. Their personalities had been stifled, replaced by apathy, cunning, and not a little viciousness. Weeks later the same could have been said of the dozen or so who followed this first batch.

Returning to the dormitory to check up, not long afterwards, I found all three deeply asleep, their features relaxed. I crossed to the other bay, peeped in at Simon, fast off, breathing steadily, sheet drawn up to his chin. Next door to Simon, Graham Elliott was also fast asleep but more disorderly: his bedclothes had fallen right off . The boys all slept bare, and I could see his reduced genitals, the puckered skin of his empty scrotum all but disappeared. Graham made me think of Narses, who had commanded the Emperor Justinian’s troops, like Graham a small wiry individual. Born to be a warrior he’d been captured when no more than eleven. He had survived the crude gelding operation which all foreign boys were subjected to, and the miserable life among the palace women, who teased him about his castration. He had plumbed the depths, only to scale the heights later, as commander-in-chief. Like him, Graham was one who’d always lead from the front.

That was the beginning of a surreal fortnight. At the end of the second week the three newcomers would have their balls pricked. It might, I thought, be possible to neuter them without them realising, if they were as deeply asleep as they were now. I’d talk to Otto about that.

Eight next morning found them tousled and bleary. Simon and his team had by now been up for an hour, breakfasted and were now in the small syndicate room doing maths with the RAEC sergeant, Sergeant Hetherington. “Right” I said. “Washroom and showers through there” (pointing.) “When you come back, all the clothes you arrived in, go in these bags. They’ll go to the laundry and you’ll get them back within the week”. (This was true). “For daytime wear you’ll put these on”. “These” were white PE vest, trainers and ankle-socks, with black satin-finish PE shorts. They looked at me in a funny way but did as they were told.

Breakfast was a strangely silent meal. They lacked nothing in appetite; all plates were cleared in no time. I’d have been surprised if anything had been left: the catering sergeant, Sergeant Bassenthwaite, had the touch of a genius with french fries, hash browns and everything else that kids love. Breakfast over, the three wandered off. For a while they explored the building, then monopolised the TV room. Some time later, Simon’s team reappeared, but there was no contact. Simon knew better than to impose himself just yet.

Lunch and tea were no different. The two groups sat at opposite ends of the table. I sat alone and uncomfortable by myself. Otto never ate in the refectory but took all his meals to his room, where he spent most of his day listening to Mozart on a personal stereo and reading large illustrated medical journals. Once, when Otto was safely in the bath, I thumbed through one of these. It gave an update – all in German – of the “Neutersol Rapid” program. The photographs were of a young boy both before castration ,with a plump well-filled scrotum and a sturdy penis that might have erected to three inches when “up”, and after, when the penis had retracted as far as the glans and the outline of the scrotum was barely traceable. The photographs were full length. The boy was very good looking, with fair hair cut in a straight bob, and a beautiful face. Both as a colt and as a gelding, his expression was the same: serene and quietly smiling. I wondered why they had neutered him.

Things began to change next morning with some rough stuff on the part of Wayne, Glen and Gary trying conclusions with Simon’s team, whom they’d evidently rated a bunch of softies. They could never have expected the results they got. First, the ratty-featured Glen, encountering Manchit in the washroom, said “Get out, wog – we don’t want wogs here”. Moments later he was seeing stars of several different colours with blood pouring from his nose. Manchit was the school’s champion flyweight and terrifyingly fast on his feet.

Wayne and Gary, deceived by the Roebuck twins’ gentle outward appearance tried to “rush” them, but were dropped, very hard indeed, on to the refectory floor. They got up, looking at the twins in an altogether different way and one of them held his hand out…..

Glen, recovered from his nosebleed, lay in wait for Mark Maitland, going alone for a pre-lunch swim, and made a clumsy attempt to trip him into the water. Instead he found himself struggling in the deep end fully clothed, with Mark helping him to climb out.

It was a strange way of breaking the ice but very effective. At tea, both groups sat together, not saying much but at least in contact. I cashed in on this. “Right” I called out. “Simon, get everyone down to the sports hall, work off all that food. Four-a-side basketball for half an hour. You to be ref. Then into the pool. Those who can, ten lengths. Those who can’t, do what they can”.

“We didn’t bring swimming cossies” objected Wayne.

“We don’t use them here” I said. “There’s no need. Now, away you go!”

I left them to it. Since every part of the building was protected by CCTV cameras all I had to do was go to the monitoring room and watch the screens. At the end of this I was satisfied that the newcomers had had a good look at Simon and his friends with no clothes on.

The spin-off was three days later. One screen showed Glen, Wayne and the Roebuck twins, none of them wearing a stitch, sitting on the shower-room floor deep in conversation. Unfortunately this was the one place without 2-way intercom. I had better luck with Gary and Mark Maitland, in a corner of the TV lounge. A few seconds’ listening and I knew the plan was working.

“Mind you” Mark was saying “I thought it was a terrible idea. But it was that, or giving up my singing career just as I’d begun to make serious money. My aunt paid for it and I went along to get it done. No worse than going to the dentist, and all over a lot quicker”.

Gary said something I couldn’t catch. “No!” was Mark’s reply. “Not taken right out! It’s done by injection, by hypodermic. You get a local anaesthetic in the top of your leg, and when you’re numbed-up the doctor injects a drug into your balls that makes them dry up. We call it “getting your balls pricked” because that’s all it is.” He told the other boy how he had biked down to the clinic to get his balls pricked and afterwards biked home again before the anaesthetic wore off; of the irritation in his balls before they finally lost sensation.

Gary said something else and I caught the word “cock”.

“That’s true” said Mark. “Afterwards your cock shrinks and it’s always soft. Tough luck on your girlfriend if she’s the sort of girl who likes to feel a cock inside her. I was lucky though. My girlfriend didn’t mind that I couldn’t do that to her any more. There are plenty of other ways you can give a girl a nice time. And you still get the feelings”.

Again something inaudible from Gary and Mark’s response “No way! Since I’ve been done, girls line up to meet me and have a feel. You’d be amazed at what some girls let you do to them, like (here he dropped his voice and I couldn’t hear the rest, but I caught the look of growing delight on Gary’s face as Mark regaled him with stories of pleasuring girls.

From then on, the atmosphere changed. Everyone sat together at mealtimes, their heads bent forward, deep in discussion of something; what it was I could only hope. But was it going to be enough for Wayne, Gary and Glen. Simon and his team could run rings round them physically. They had a lot that could be admired. But was it enough? Could I picture any of them coming to me and saying “Please, I want to get my balls pricked so I can be like Simon” ?

I doubted it. None of the six had wanted to be neutered. Even to Mark, who was unique in seeing the advantages of his new state, it had been a terrible idea to start with. But the three had to be done – somehow. I took my dilemma to Otto who smiled, and switched off his Walkman.

“Neutersol is a colourless, odourless liquid” he began, as if starting a lecture. “It’s claimed to be entirely painless even if injected with no anaesthetic at all. Personally, though, I prefer my patients to be entirely sedated. After injection the discomfort is no more than a mosquito bite. All the case studies we did, indicated that boys neutered under general anaesthetic were unaware of it at the time, and only became aware when their genitals began to regress.

”Next day” he went on “they will wake with massive erections and this will distract them from any irritation lower down”.

Otto smiled and returned to his Beethoven CD. I put a revised timetable together in my head, based on the knowledge (a) that Neutersol Rapid worked very fast, but (b) the results wouldn’t begin to appear until the three were out of the country and what was much more important, split up and living among strangers.

I called the three to the small meeting room and tried to inject a cloak-and-dagger atmosphere into what I told them. “You three” I said “have been specially selected for an assignment in France”.

“Bin there” said Wayne. “On a school trip. Bor-ring!”

“Me too” said Glen. “Din’t like it much”

I ignored this. “The last couple of days” I went on “have been an appraisal period and I’m pleased to say you have all passed with flying colours. Now for the next couple of weeks you are going to have a crash course in everyday French; how to buy a ticket on the railway, how to order a meal – stuff like that. When you’re not doing that, the resident team here will make certain you’re physically fit. At the end of the third week you will be taken to meet our agent at a secret rendezvous, and he’ll have your papers so that you can leave the country”.

“Shall we have numbers” asked Gary “like 007?”

“I think that’s very likely” I said. “But I don’t know what they are and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. That’s security. I finished with the standard military formula “Any (pause) questions?” There were none. I’d gobsmacked them. “Right then – Sergeant’s waiting for you. Away you go to your first French lesson”.

I can safely pass over the greater part of those three weeks. They settled down into a routine. The boys buckled down to their French: I’d see them emerging from their lessons trying to memorise “Paris, aller et retour” or “Saucisse et frites”. The only interruption was a call from Max Riche, giving me a contact name – Aristide Breuil, and a number in the 0800 series which I couldn’t identify with any region.

Tuesday of the fourth week!

“Tonight?” I asked Otto, who nodded. He knew what I meant.

Tea had been cleared away. Simon’s team had gone to the sports hall. I rounded up the other three. “A bit of bad news” I began, apologetically. “There’s an outbreak of something where you’re going, and you all need to be immunised. All you need to do is eat a lump of sugar, which has the vaccine on it. Here you are. You may feel a bit wobbly afterwards. If you do, go and lie down”.

They took their sugar lumps without a word. They were, in fact, laced with something that would put them right under till about three in the morning. After that, normal sleep would supervene. One after the other we watched them yawn, and go rather unsteadily to their dormitory.

At eleven, Otto and I went up. Glen was the first. His sharp features were softened by deep slumber. Gently I pulled back the sheet. The boy’s genitals were relaxed and limp. Otto’s strong fingers closed round the scrotum, rather roughly I thought, and with quick practised movements injected the testicles with Neutersol. I replaced the sheet over the sleeping boy, and we moved on, to neuter the other two. None of them made any movement.

Otto’s account of the side-effect was accurate: at eight next morning I had the amusement of seeing Wayne, Glen and Gary sidling about the place, trying to hide the rods of flesh that stuck out before them – the last erections they would ever have. Better, I thought, to get the three on their way as soon as possible. I went to my office and keyed-in the number I’d had from Max. “J’écoute” said a voice.

“Monsieur Breuil?” I enquired. “Le Vicomte de Breuil” came the reply, heavy with disapproval. (With a name like Aristide, I should have guessed.) “Oh, mille pardons, M le Vicomte” I replied, like a minor character in a Molière play. But he came quickly to the point when he knew who I was, and we arranged a meeting place two days on. They were strange days, full of apprehension: would the three have any idea of what had been done to them – that they had lost their boyhood - and if so, how would they react? I kept them as busy as possible.

Molyneux Junction train-station seemed an odd rendezvous but it had an advantage. The convergence of six routes, it was very easy to arrive at, and to depart from. At ten-forty-six, the agreed time, I stood on its bleak platform, the boys by my side. The night was starry and cold. The ten-forty-six, a “local”, drew in, on time. Only one passenger got off, a neatly dressed, small man. He came straight over.

“Le commandant Donald?” I nodded. “Ce sont les gosses?” “Oui” I said.

I had come prepared for a lot more questions, like “Ce sont de vrais eunuques?” to which I’d have said “Mais oui, alors; ils ont été châtrés par un procès chimique, qui désèche les testicules” but I didn’t get to use any of it. The Viscount was keen to get on his way. “C’est bon” he said, dismissively. “Allons-y, mes enfants”. He led them to the exit, where I guessed a car would be waiting, to take them to Ringway or possibly Speke. That was nothing to do with me.

Four months went by. Four more trios of misfits arrived at the centre, got their balls pricked and were passed on. Typically for February the days were rainy and cold, making me long for Paraguay. One day, as agreed, I phoned Max to give him a progress report. He liked me to use one of the call boxes on the train-station platform. He told me he’d just flown in from Argentina, that he was staying at the Sheraton Tower, and that we ought to meet. I agreed and went to look up train times.

The place was very quiet when I got back. The pool was deserted. Manchit and the Roebuck twins were watching TV; Mark and Graham playing chess. I sought my office, where I’d left Simon to deal with incoming phone calls.

He’d turned the computer on and logged-on to a hardcore porn video website. The tape was just beginning. It was the usual stuff: a boy and girl, both about sixteen. The girl was very pretty, with a long blonde ponytail. She had very little on: a black bra and thong to match, and black hold-up stockings with lacy tops. The boy was dark-haired and had nothing on, apart from a rubber on his prick, a massive 7-inch erection pointing to his chin.

The boy taking the girl’s bra and knickers off followed some foreplay and kissing. As they coupled, the girl twined her legs round the boy’s waist and her arms round his neck. The camera zoomed in between the girl’s thighs, showing the boy’s penis slipping in and out of her vagina, rumpy-pumpy, rumpy-pumpy……..

I should have ignored all this, but instead tried to make a joke of it. “Any regrets, Simon?” I asked, jerking a thumb towards the screen, where frenzied teenage shafting was still going on.

Simon glared at me. “Well, what do YOU think?” he hissed – no “sir” this time, contempt in every syllable. I crept away, sorry I’d ever spoken. Leaving Otto in charge I went for my train.

“It’s going very well, I understand” were Max's first words. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ve added fifteen to the world supply of castrated boys at the rate of three a month” I said. “The payments have all come in, so if that means it’s going very well, yes; I’d agree”.

“Do you feel you could carry on?”

“If I must” I said. I had a mental vision of Simon, sick with frustration, watching two teenagers doing what he never could. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, but was very much aware of Max’s influence. “But I’d prefer not to have von Gosch. In Paraguay I had a man called Ledoux, he was big, fat and jolly. Von Gosch creeps around the place and rarely speaks; the boys call him Doctor Death”.

Max nodded. “I’ll make a note of it” he said.

“I’ve something new for you” Max said, after a pause. “Something you can work in with what you’re doing already. Something which, with your South American background, you should find interesting”.

He’d touched a nerve there, knowing how much I missed Paraguay – the tropical heat and colour, my cheerful, kindly local helpers, the excited cries of my thirty-odd protégés practising football, their exuberance at mealtimes. By contrast I lived like a troglodyte with the silent Professor von Gosch and five boys who regarded the place as an extension of school, where “speak when you are spoken to” applied strictly. Max knew he had my attention.

“You’ll know that towards the end of World War II, several prominent members of the German régime were reputed to have escaped by submarine to South America. No “reputed” about it; they made it Well, they’ve all been dead for years of course, but their second generation is still around – some of them – and a third and even a fourth. By degrees they’ve been getting their hands on those billions of Reichsmarks that were salted away in 1945 and as a result they are able to live in some style. The chief ones have got a sort of colony, based on the old hotel where Hitler used to stay sometimes, and it’s practically impregnable to anyone outside their circle. Now, our contacts tell us that………

He stopped, seeing my expression. I could see where he was coming from, and it was nowhere I wanted to go.

“Something the matter, Iain? I’d have thought that…….”

That made me angry. “Stop it, Max” I snapped. “Stop it. I can guess the rest and the answer’s No. Get it – No, once for all. Now, for a change, you listen to me.

“For two years past I’ve gone along with everything you’ve proposed. Along the way I’ve learned certain things. That there are people out there who want neutered boys. That when it comes to price, the sky’s the limit. That when it comes to supply, there’s no problem because there are millions of boys available for neutering and it makes no difference to the big wide world whether they are neutered or not. That’s not the point. I don’t have a problem with neutering boys for the right reasons, but the line’s got to be drawn somewhere.

“You once said “Keep the punters happy” with all sorts of reasons, financial, diplomatic – you name it – and I’ve accepted the arguments although I wouldn’t have given those particular punters the time of day! Obscenely rich Arabs who think everything and everyone can be bought, who want to act out the Thousand and One Nights. Decadent French aristos who long to return to the Middle Ages. And now, the degenerate scum who are the heirs to Hitler’s Germany! Well, sod that for an idea, Max. What maniac fished that one up? No, for the last time. And sod the consequences – tell your bosses that!”

For the moment I’d run out of words, I was so angry. Max was smiling faintly. I let him speak, though I was more prepared to hit him if he said the wrong thing.

“You don’t surprise me, Iain” he said, in that pleasant way he had. “With your background I’d have been far more surprised if you’d said “yes”. I’d have thought much less of you, too, for accepting. It’s unfortunate for me, in my job, that I have to be on the receiving end of these “funnies” however far-fetched or outrageous, as this one is. I don’t see this particular one going anywhere, actually. No one will want to touch it.

“So now we come to you. While you’re in town get yourself down to Gieves and get kitted out. At least get a white tuxedo”.

“What on earth are you talking about”

“It’s time you became respectable. After a lot of thought we’d like you to be military attaché in the Gilbert and Ellice Islands”.

“Did you say, military attaché”

“Yes, though there are very few troops on the base now. The duties are mainly deputising for the Governor General, at functions he can’t be bothered to go to. It’ll be back to the Army again, Major – we’ve moved you up a notch, so you can stop calling me Sir – not that you ever did, of course. So you’ll need the right kit to dress up in and look the part. What medal ribbons have you got?”

“Only three. The Falklands” (Christ, I was only eighteen when the Falklands was on, I thought.) “The General Service, and the first Gulf war”.

“I can do something about that.” (He fished in his briefcase and took out two black leather-covered boxes). “First, your one-time friends in the Gulf have been persuaded to give you a memento”.

The memento was a gilt-and-enamel neck decoration. The pendant bore the star and crescent and a lot of spidery writing. The ribbon was green watered silk. “It’s the Order of Medjidieh, second class” said Max. “No chance of the first class, I’m afraid. Their Royals reserve that for themselves. Then there’s this”.

Inside the second box I recognised the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour. “That’s for the French connection” said Max. “Only fourth class. We’re allowed to nominate about a dozen every year to keep the numbers up.”.

“I take it the answer’s Yes?” asked Max after a pause. “Nice quiet little billet. Do it well and you’ll probably get a CMG in a year or two”.

“One final thing” I said. “Can I take it for definite, that this post of military attaché is nothing remotely to do with neutering boys?”

“Neutering boys – good God, no!” Max laughed. “Under the local penal code of the islands, anything of that sort is right at the top of the list of capital crimes. It carries the death penalty”.

THE END