Fred quickly regained his wits, stuffed his cock back in his shorts, and dialed 911 to report that a youth had apparently injured himself in some masochistic act of self-abuse, which he had inadvertently witnessed as he retracted the Skycam. He then hurried down the street to meet the paramedics. He intended to make sure that they had the right house, and to assist them in any way possible. He also had to make damn good and sure that he had left nothing to implicate himself.

“Good God! Look at that!” The first EMT said, eying the bleeding boy and his huge, detached, nut sack.

“I ain’t never seen nothing like that, at least not on a white boy.” His black female partner offered. Despite her training and professionalism the sight of the castrated youth’s enormous cock distracted her. Working as a team they freed the boy’s bonds, got him stabilized, and loaded onto a stretcher. The lady gingerly picked up the boy’s severed nuts and reverently placed them into a plastic container, although it was extremely doubtful that any attempt would be made to reattach them. Fred couldn’t help but notice her shortness of breath and her sudden flush, and also that her partner seemed to have acquired a boner.

“What’s this stuff on his face and in his hair?” the blond youth, barely twenty-one years old, asked his seasoned partner.

The woman didn’t answer, and it was all Fred could do to keep from busting out laughing. The naïve little turd would figure it out for himself sooner or later. Judging by their body language they would probably stop on the way to the hospital for a few minutes of recreation. Fred didn’t give a shit what consenting adults did, even when they were on the time clock. His only concern was to make sure that the boy hadn’t remembered him or anything that had happened. The sedative used was also a powerful psychotic drug and the boy was completely disoriented and would likely never remember the accident.

The ambulance left, the cops showed up, and then the parents came home drunk and promptly went apeshit and were escorted to the hospital in the back of a cruiser. Fred and the police inspector, a high school classmate of Fred’s, retired to Fred’s office so that Fred, the hero of the day, could tell his story.

“Well, Paul, the Skycam goes off line at dusk, and I retract it. I was doing this when I saw a bright light in the monitor, so I stopped it to take a look.” Fred explained.

“So, let me get this straight,” Paul interrupted. “You use the National Weather Service camera to spy on your neighbors?”

“No! Nothing like that at all. I can’t even move the camera except to rotate it downward. Like I said, I just happened to see something bright on the monitor so I stopped it. It was pointed right at the balcony, and there was Kyson, the neighbor boy, naked in the doorway.”

“You get a big charge out of naked boys, do you?” Paul asked. He wasn’t exactly accusing his old friend and classmate; he just threw stuff like that at the wall to see if any of it would stick. He had found confrontation to be a useful tool in interrogating witnesses as well as suspects.

“You know damned good and well that you’d have looked too.” Fred countered, somewhat angrily. “You see a bare ass, and you take a second look. It’s just human nature.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get upset, just go on.” Paul apologized, sort of.

“Well, anyway, the kid had this chair in the doorway, the next thing I see is him tying a gag around his mouth. The he fastens something to the railing, pulls out a string or something, and ties it around his balls. He sits down in the chair, fastens his ankles to the chair legs, and then takes a pair of what looked like those plastic handcuffs you guys use and pins his hands behind him.” Fred explained, carefully omitting the fact that the kid’s hands had been secured with ordinary tie-wraps instead of handcuffs, and that there was a whole bag of them in his desk drawer.

“Why didn’t you call 911 sooner?” Paul asked. “Couldn’t you see he was in danger?”

“Hell, I just figured it was some kind of teenage prank, that’s all. You know how kids are these days, nose rings, ear rings, and God only knows where else, and for all I knew there was another kid with him. Anyway, The first hint I had that something was wrong was when his nuts came off. God damn, but that must have hurt! That’s when I called it in and then rushed over to meet the ambulance.” Fred didn’t bother mentioning that the kid had gotten his rocks off just before losing them.

“If you ask me, he must have been on drugs or something,” Fred offered. The drug he was referring to had been banned for over twenty years; Fred had smuggled some of the powerful veterinary tranquilizers into the country in his personal baggage a long time ago. “He was such a polite, well mannered boy that it’s hard to believe he would intentionally mutilate himself or try to commit suicide.” Fred laid it on pretty thick, hoping that the detective would come to the same conclusion on his own. “Unless, of course, he was embarrassed by the size of what he had, I mean he looked kind of special, if you know what I mean.”

“You got that right.” Paul agreed. “If I had a cock and a set of balls like that I sure as hell wouldn’t do anything to damage them.”

Fred went through the story again and after a few more questions Paul was satisfied that the boy’s injuries were self-inflicted.

The summer came and went, as did Fred’s granddaughter, who was bored stiff and eager to get back home to her friends and hopefully, a summer romance. Kyson came home from the hospital transformed into a meek, polite young man and everybody complimented him on his good manners. The family moved away soon after that, and the house sat empty all winter.

This period was one of pure happiness for Fred. He could walk the street again without having to worry about the little fuck running over him, he no longer had to shovel their Labrador’s dogshit from his yard, and best of all he could sit outside on the patio without the ever-present ‘Boom-ba-Boom’ of Kyson’s over-amplified stereo echoing through the neighborhood.

The ‘For Sale’ sign on the vacant house came down the next spring, and soon Fred could hear the angry whine of Skil-saws and the clatter of hammers, so for the first time since he castrated his former neighbor kid he lowered the weather camera to take a look at the house, where several workmen were remodeling Kyson’s old bedroom suite.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked the plumber on the project, an old friend of his.

“The new owner must have a whole shit load of kids.” The man answered. “Come on up and take a look.”

The whole room had been gutted. The huge walk-in closet had been removed, as well as the bathroom walls. The corner of the room had been tiled and now contained a large multi-shower area adjacent to a toilet, urinal, and triple basin vanity. Four double bunk beds had been built in along the walls, and the only furniture consisted of two drawers built into each bunk and a small space by each to hang clothing.

“It looks like a fucking Army barracks!” Fred commented. The only thing about the room that hadn’t changed was the faint bloodstain on the balcony deck commemorating the spot where the former resident surrendered his manhood.

“My wife and I like kids.” Robert Owens told Fred. “When our own all left the nest we decided to make our home available to foster kids.” ‘Bob’ was in his late forties or early fifties, lean, ramrod straight, and had a firm, authoritive handshake. His sloppy tee shirt had the same USMC fouled anchor insignia as the tattoo on his massive forearm. “It’s great being able to do something for these kids, and the State pays pretty well too. They’ll be here in a few days with my wife, so you’ll get to meet them then.”

“Boys, this is Fred Wilson,” Bob introduced his neighbor. The six youths came to attention and stood in a straight line like a bunch of trained seals. The youngest was ten or eleven, and the oldest somewhere around thirteen or fourteen years old. They were all well-groomed, clean-cut kids, and they were all dressed similar to Bob in shorts, tee shirts, and running shoes. They had been jogging up the street but stopped when Fred came out of his yard.

“This is Stephen.” Bob said, as they paused in front of the youngest boy.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Stephen said politely, stepping forward and extending his hand.

Fred shook the boy’s hand, but was mildly surprised that he hadn’t received a salute instead. Dennis, Richard, Thomas, and Michael all did the same and shook hands with Fred respectfully then stepped back into line. Wayne was older than the others. He had a fine dusting of hair on his upper lip and several zits on his face, but the downy hair on his legs had not yet coalesced to the coarseness of an adult or older teen.

“Hello, sir.” He said with a croaking adolescent voice, and with what Fred interpreted as being a go-to-hell expression on his face he extended his hand. Handshakes were sort of important to Fred, and he felt that a firm handshake was the measure of a man. He also knew that a lot of people, old people in particular, suffered from arthritis or other ailments that would likely be aggravated by a rough, harsh grip from a younger, stronger man, and a true gentleman never gripped a stranger’s hand harder than his own was being gripped. This kid acted like he wanted to prove something by reefing down on Fred’s hand for all he was worth. The crushing grip would have been debilitating to many old geezers, but Fred had broken his wrist a few years ago and part of the rehabilitation had involved hours with a spring-grip exerciser, and now he had a grip that few teenagers could match.

“Pleased to meet you.” Fred said, clamping down hard enough to crack walnuts. The sneer on the boy’s face was instantly replaced by a grimace of pain. Fred smiled and released the boy, who quickly stepped back into line, gingerly flexing his fingers to see if they all still worked. The troop continued their run, and Fred went back to work in his yard.

Later that same evening, for the first time in almost a year, Fred stopped the rotation of the Skycam and focused on the balcony. Bob was there, still dressed as he had been on the morning run, but all of the boys were lined up naked. The youngest stepped up onto a stool, grabbed his immature penis, retracted the foreskin for Bob’s examination, and then lifted it so that Bob could see the bottom side of it.

“Holy shit!’ thought Fred. ‘A shortarm inspection!’

Fred had been in the Army, and all soldiers were issued a rifle, or longarm, and were born with a prick, or ‘shortarm’. Sergeants or officers frequently inspected the rifles to see that they had been properly cleaned and maintained, and personnel were subject to occasional shortarm inspections to check the soldier for proper hygiene as well as the telltale discharges or cankers that indicate the presence of VD. Some of the guys said they were looking for signs of excess masturbation as well, but Fred just figured that was bullshit. These were usually done at night after interrupting a tired soldier’s sleep, and the indignity of hanging one’s cock out for inspection was just one of humiliations inflicted upon recruits and draftees. The five younger boys, all prepubescent, and aware that they were legally doing something slightly naughty, seemed to take the examination with good humor but the oldest boy, Wayne, was obviously uncomfortable being nude in the company of an adult. He fidgeted and squirmed the whole time and Bob practically had to pry his hands away from his genitals to examine them. There wasn’t really that much to see; the lad had only a modest amount of pubic hair and his equipment was no larger than half the size of the room’s previous occupant’s, or in other words he was a normal thirteen year old boy. The boys donned their underwear and went to bed and Fred shut the camera down and did the same.

Fred didn’t necessarily agree that military-like discipline was the best way to raise kids, but he certainly couldn’t fault the result Bob had with the method. Foster boys have typically been knocked around a lot and are more at risk that other kids as far as crime and drugs are concerned, but his kids were great. They were polite, well spoken, and energetic, and one or the other was always willing to help Fred with any yard work or other project that he might be doing. They kept in excellent shape and jogged just about every morning. Wayne seemed to have a little attitude, but no more than any other snotty teenager, and even as jaded as Fred was he kind of liked the boy.

August was a scorcher of a month and several forest fires erupted in the nearby mountains. The sky was hazy during the day and it was even hot at night. Fred had trouble sleeping, so late one night he activated the Skycam and checked out the mountain pass to see if he could see the forest fire. It was so smoky that he could only see a faint glow in that direction, but lowering the camera back down revealed that there were still lights on in the boy’s bedroom, so he focused on the balcony. The boys were all outside, gathered in a circle on the deck. They appeared to be playing some kind of card game, and as Fred watched one of the younger boys, Thomas he thought, evidently lost the hand and threw down his cards in disgust.

Wayne suddenly stood up and stripped off his shorts, allowing his five-inch erection to slap up against his hairless belly. Thomas also rose, but kept his pants on and his eyes locked on the older boy’s cock until one of the others came up behind him and jerked his pants down for him. Someone pulled the mattress from one of the unused bunks, and the four spectators make a tight circle around the victor and the loser. Fred couldn’t see the floor show, but he really didn’t want to watch anyway.

It was too hot to run the next morning so the boys walked instead. Wayne strutted proudly out front, obviously enjoying himself, while Thomas trailed a few yards behind the other boys. He was walking stiffly and he kept stopping to reach back and scratch his ass. Fred eyed Wayne, and he could almost see the boy’s slender erection through his shorts.

“Someone should nut that little fucker.” He said aloud. It was the first time in over a year that he had spoken those words.

To be continued.