The Reformatory

He's wrongfully accused of raping a minor.  With the change of laws 
in 2015, he's found guilty, and sentence is...

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	I’d always wanted to be castrated.  So, in 2014 when the 
Castration Law was adopted nationally, I was just in the right place 
at the right time.  In therapy I learned that my love of boys was a 
regression, that my wish for castration was regressive as well.  So 
now, after the year of mandatory in-patient counseling, and eighteen 
months of half-way housework is done, I’m considered sexless, and 
safe.



	The thing is, there are certain people who will never be safe 
from me.



	What ended me up in the clink, and finally the castrator’s 
chair, was that I really do love boys.  Believe it or not (and I have 
nothing to loose by telling the truth here) I have never actually had 
sex with a boy.  By that I mean, I’ve never screwed any boys.  
Usually I’ve gotten together with guys my own age for sex.  But sex 
isn’t what got me castrated.



	When Billy came to my door it was fifteen degrees out, and he 
had on his denim jacket with short sleeve shirt underneath.  Yes, I 
saw him naked.  I told the judge that.  I pulled him into my house, 
fed him, got a hot bath ready, and supervised his bath.  He’d been 
here before, and he’d lie about it.  So, this particular night, I 
watched.  It was then that I saw the smeared blood on his rear.



	"What happened, Bill," I asked him, rubbing his back with the 
washcloth.



	"Dad raped me," he said.  It was if my heart stopped.  He was 
a beautiful 16 year old.  His skin was soft.  (Yes, I thought about 
sex.)  He’d been brutally circumcised at the prison camp the year 
before, when his father had had him committed for being 
‘incorrigible.’



	"Has it ever happened before," I asked.  He looked up at me 
with his deep brown eyes, and nodded.  Then he continued his bath.  
When he was finished I left.  It was then, I suppose, that he pulled 
out my old hot water bottle, and douched himself.  When I called the 
Minor Protection Service Agency I told them that I was letting a 
young man stay at my place.  I have them his name and address, and my 
name and address.  I was trying to be a good citizen.



	I was tired, and I went into my bedroom.  Soon I fell 
asleep.  In the meantime Billy came into my room, and climbed in next 
to me.  I woke up once, realizing that he was under my arm.  But them 
I fell asleep again.



	At 4:00 in the morning, my life changed forever.  There was a 
knock on the door.  I didn’t pay much attention to it, since it’s 
that kind of neighborhood.  Suddenly, someone jumped through my 
window.  I heard the door crash open.  I just laid there, knowing 
enough not to move.



	"Clear…clear…clear…," I heard, and then, yelling, "stay right 
where you are.  William Higgins?"



	"Yes, sir," Billy said, almost whispering.



	"You’ve been reported missing by your parents, and are to 
come with us."  I could feel the man grab Billy by the arm standing 
him up.  Billy said nothing.  Obviously the six months in prison camp 
had worked.  I hadn’t realized there was no fight left in him, until 
that moment.  I stayed ice-frozen still.  "Where were you 
incarcerated," the lead officer asked.



"Teringen," Billy answered.  He was led outside, nude (he’d slipped 
into my bed that way) and whisked away in the police van.  Then an 
officer pulled both of my arms to my back, and put the handcuffs on 
me.  Then they pulled me up by the hair.



	"Ok, motherfucker," the lead officer yelled, "what did you do 
to him?"



	"Nothing," I said.



	"That won’t help your case much."  Then he turned to another 
cop.  "Book him.  Intergenerational homosexual sex, one."  Like 
Billy, they didn’t let me get my clothes on either.  Fortunately I 
had my shorts on, and an undershirt.



	The Republicans had so totally sold individual freedom down 
the drain in the first decade of the 21st Century that the Maranda 
Rights had been suspended for homosexual crimes, and any males 
accused of homosexual sexual crimes were given the opportunity to 
confess, and keep there testicles, or go through a summary trial with 
a judge, lawyers appointed by the court (even if you could afford 
one), and receive the maximum sentence: castration with therapy for 
two and a half years.



	The investigation was a travesty.  Billy was taken to the 
hospital.  He’d cleaned his rectum out, and they couldn’t find any 
sperm.  I would have been saved if they had.  But there had always 
been an element in my psyche that thought it was wrong to love boys 
even in the way I did.  So, if I were castrated, it wouldn’t be that 
much of a loss, I thought.



	The trial was held 48 hours after my arrest.  Two lawyers 
were in front of the judge.  He flipped a coin to determine who would 
be prosecution, and who would be defense.  It took two hours.  Billy 
got on the stand, and said that his father had raped him.  The 
prosecution tore into him, and finally all he could do was cry.  He 
was sent back to Teringen.  Since he’d been there once, he too was 
probably going to be castrated, a victim to the new eugenics laws 
adopted by the U.S. to keep the blood lines "pure."  All I could 
think about was the Third Reich’s laws.  What was worse now, is that 
under the new Rules, a person could be forced to testify against 
themselves.



	"Did you willingly put your penis into William Higgins’s anal 
canal and have an orgasm."



	"No," I answered.  "I did not."



	"Liar," the father said under his breath.  I heard him.  I 
thought at the time that he’d end up paying his due.  Though I don’t 
believe in the complete unfairness of life, I did, and still do, 
believe in a kind of justice.  While I was in the half-way house I 
learned that Kelly, Billy’s younger brother, castrated his father 
when he tried to rape the boy.  The man died, and Kelly disappeared.



	"The court has come to a verdict," Judge Ashinder stated.  
"The defendant may rise."



	I got up.  "You are found guilty of Intergenerational 
Homosexual Sex, and of male rape, both in the first degree.  Do you 
have anything to say prior to sentencing.



	I shook my head.



	"You are hereby sentenced to the mandatory bilateral 
orchidectomy.  You will be taken from this place to the Ives 
Reformatory, where you will be castrated, and then will reside for a 
period of not more than two and a half years, and not less than one 
year.  Do you understand?"  I nodded.



	They stripped me naked right in the courtroom.  I had become 
a non-person.  They put me in the red uniform of a pre-castrate.  
Then they put the leg-irons on me, and took me to the prison van.  
All the time I was thinking, I don’t believe this is happening.  But 
then something strange started to happen.  It hadn’t happened since I 
was an adolescent, fooling around with a younger neighborhood boy.  I 
got an erection while I thought of my castration.  Since I was 
already sitting, it wasn’t really noticeable.  By the time we got to 
the Reformatory, it was gone.



	Processing didn’t take long.  I was walked from the van into 
the "reception" area where I was stripped.  I went through a 
humiliating medical exam, and then they took me to the cell that I 
would inhabit for the next year.  When I’d settled (it was really 
only a look) they had me take off my suit, and walk naked through the 
corridor to a room marked "Procedures."  It was here that I got a 
boner again.



	"Get rid of that," one of the guards said.  The other one 
laughed.



	"I can’t," I said, almost crying.



	The door opened.  A man in a white lab coat motioned the 
guards to sit me down on a chair that looked similar to the old 
nautilus machine that holds you legs apart during exercise.  I was 
pushed down.  As I sat, I felt something being weaseled up my 
asshole.  Soon I relaxed (later I learned that it was a line to put 
sedative into my system), my penis went limp.  Then the chair was 
adjusted so that my rear, with the strange looking tube, was up, and 
my cock and balls were elevated.  Soon a technician taped my penis to 
my abdomen.



	"We’re ready," the masked man said.



	"What about anesthetic," I asked.


	"It’s a penal castration," he said, and laughed.  "You don’t 
get pain killers for this or your circumcision."  I’d forgotten.  
Circumcision was mandatory for everyone who was brought here.



	He went to work quickly.  I still have no idea what the parts 
were.  They strapped me in so that I couldn’t move while the doctor 
did his work.  In one and a half hours the bandages were in place, a 
pad on each side of my scrotum where he’d cut my testicles out, and a 
circular bandage around the head of my penis which, to my surprise, 
was poking out.   They unloosed the straps and helped me get up.  
Weakly I limped until we got to my cell.  They let me lie down, and I 
went to sleep.



	When I woke up, I was in pajamas!  A nurse was in the cell.  
He said he’d looked at the wounds.  Everything had been done nicely.  
I would probably heal quickly.  Then he sat down on the bed.



	"Did you like sex," he asked me.



	"Yes," I said. 



	"Enjoy penile sex as long as you can," he said.  "It’s only 
going to be a matter of time before you start getting hot flashes, 
and then your penis won’t get as hard as often."  Then he smiled.  
"But, if you like sex, there’s still plenty around here to be 
gotten."  He paused.  "You just have to know where to look."  Then he 
pulled his own gown away, and I saw that he’d been cut like me.  He 
was circumcised, and had no testicles."



	"Are you a nurse," I asked.



	"I’m a male R.N.," he said.  "Just got into a little hot 
water.  I was done about six months ago.  I’ll be here another six 
months."



	I hadn’t wanted to be circumcised.  So, getting used to the 
bare cockhead was completely unanticipated.  After six days I had my 
first come.  I was still able to get erections.  This was proven when 
I wanted them to go away after the circumcision!  But at the same 
time I didn’t want to loose my ability to get a hard-on that 
quickly.  As far as being circumcised, it was like learning to jerk-
off all over again.



	My second week I went into therapy.  It was mandatory, and 
we’d sit there and talk.  Perhaps I should feel guilty, because some 
of these guys I thought got what they deserved.  But I had never even 
had sex with a younger guy.  The therapy wasn’t any fun.  But I 
started to meet guys, other castrates, who still were sexed, and 
liked to have it with other guys.  This was when I learned I liked to 
get it in the butt, and is a different story.



	It is here that I will end.  Two and a half years after my 
castration I still get erections, but they aren’t what they were 
before.  I like to get fucked, which I didn’t know before.  At least 
I know I won’t get prostate cancer.



	I’ll write later to tell more of my exploits at the 
Reformatory.