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Dark at teatime, sleeping indoors. Nothing ever happens in November so don’t expect any adventures in these pages. Coming in off the freezing rugby field, muddy, and with my skin all goose-bumps, the warm steamy locker-room seemed a haven. Seconds later I stood under the shower, feeling a little more human as the hot water poured over me. The shower cubicle became a private heaven. Only I had to share it with little Hugh Cameron. “What’s it like, Scott?” In summer, dressed in cricketing gear and with a bat in his hand, little Hugh Cameron might have stepped straight out of the Edwardian canvas “Young England”. Same round face, snub nose, freckled complexion, same blond forelock tumbling across his forehead, same clear grey eyes. He was eleven going on twelve, the same age as I was, when……… But you’ve heard all about that before. Hugh’s name, and his soft Clyde Coast lilt, however, showed he was anything but English. As for cricketing gear and a bat, forget it. He wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing and neither was I. We were both under the same shower in the junior changing room. Hugh was the only intact boy present, and would not normally have been there. Intact boys and ball-less ones usually showered separately, so as not to risk “inappropriate sexual behaviour” as the staff called it. Hugh had the kind of pre-adolescent body that the Greeks were so good at sculpting thousands of years ago. Some master-craftsman would have replicated Hugh’s immature sex organs in marble. His penis was the perfect uncircumcised item, the tight foreskin showing the shape of the glans beneath. Under the influence of the warm water his plump scrotum dangled enticingly – a lot of perverted men would have loved to fondle it and stroke his penis till it became stiff. (If I sound preoccupied with Hugh’s genitals, this encounter with me, under the showers, had a lot to do with that part of him). Hugh getting an erection seemed unlikely to be a long-term prospect, for he had become obsessed by an unfortunate enthusiasm – of taking up singing, as a soprano, seriously. He’d gone to Mr Trefusis, quoting me as his paragon, and Mr Trefusis had said “Go and talk to Scott about what that means” – in other words, how to get castrated and be trained up as a eunuch. Trust me to catch the dirty end of the stick. The unwelcome chore had been dropped in my lap, so here he was. “You do know, Hugh” I’d begun “that there’s only one way of keeping your voice permanently high. You have to get neutered – lose your manhood – and you can never get married or have children”. (As I’ve explained before, changes in the law made it possible for young boys to be neutered for all kinds of reasons: singing was just one). Hugh nodded. “I’ve read a little about it. It’s done on your privates”. He began blushing. Quite unlike me at his age, when I’d been such a bundle of dirty curiosity that I’d been almost eager to have something done to my privates. “Want to know how it’s done?” I asked. Hugh nodded again. Although the traditional gelding operation hadn’t been done on boys for a long time now, Hugh didn’t know that. He’d been reading too many silly stories with passages like this: “What are you going to do with him?” I asked the Baron, gesturing towards the beautiful fair-haired boy. “Do with him? Do with him?” repeated the Baron, his face turning crimson. “I’m going to have him gelded – that’s what I’m going to do with him. And when I’m certain he’s safe, and can’t get up to any tricks, I’ll give him to my daughter as a page”. Hugh was apprehensive about getting neutered and whether he might have a rough time afterwards. “Well” I began “you know that not so long ago,“before a boy hit puberty, he would have an operation, usually under local anaesthetic. The doctor had to open up the boy’s scrotum, tie the cords and cut the balls right out. The boy would have to spend about a week in bed afterwards, till he healed up”. Hugh nodded. “I’ve read about it” he said “in that Kingsley Amis story about a choirboy – ‘The Alteration’. The boy, Hubert, was to have them taken out and would have to spend a long time in bed afterwards, with ointments to relieve the pain”. “That’s not done any more” I said. “ Nowadays it’s done by injection – a needle into each side. There’s no pain at all. The effect’s just the same as removing the balls, because they wither and disappear and your cock shrinks up. Just have a look around”. Hugh took a look at me, first. My penis was of much the same size and shape as a thimble, and my scrotum, at first a loose fold after my balls dried up, had grown right out as I grew bigger, into just a patch of skin, a bit wrinkly and of a different colour. But what the technical books call “penile shrinkage” after a boy is neutered, varies a lot, as Hugh was to find out. A few feet away, under the next shower, stood Roddy, and Sandie Ross was under the one beyond that. They were treating us to some rather beautiful singing: items from the choir’s next recital. Roddy was singing soprano whilst Sandie supplied the alto part. I’m not sure if I ever told you Sandie’s full story. Though he was a good alto, he hadn’t been neutered just to keep his voice high. He lived with guardians who had a daughter of their own, the sort you long to meet when you are first experimenting with sex – a dirty-minded little slut. For a long time they’d been exploring one another – Sandie’s hand up the girl’s skirt and two fingers up her hole, hers up the leg of his shorts feeling his cock and balls. Then, one afternoon, things took a giant leap forward. Allie (that was the girl’s name) let Sandie pull her knickers down. His cock stood out all of two inches – the last hard-on he would ever have, as things turned out). Allie spread her legs. “Put it in, Sandie” she whispered “and then do something inside – just a drop, just a little drop, that’s all- then I’ll be a woman!” Sandie, shaking all over with excitement, did exactly as he was told, right down to the “little drop” – and in that position Allie’s mother found them. A “horsey” person, she wasted no time. Colts that got above themselves were “cut” right away, and Sandie was taken down to the clinic the same day, to have his balls out– or should I say, pricked, as all boys are these days. In my case my cock just stopped growing afterwards, but with Sandie, as with several other boys I’d known, the results were extreme: his penis retracted into his body right up to the glans and there it would stay, a sort of button between his chubby thighs. He would never get an erection, ever again, and he was unable even to pee standing up, except in the shower! Having sex with girls – front or back way – was right off Sandie’s agenda – for good, as the girl’s mother intended it should be. Castration affects boys’ natures in different ways, of course. Among other things, losing his testosterone source had made Sandie a bit girlish and giggly. His sex urges had been turned upside-down and were now wholly passive, earning him the well deserved reputation of being the “house tart”. Visiting the beds of other boys in the night hours had landed him in trouble a few times as I’ve told you before. Roddy with his dark-blonde hair down to his shoulders had the face and figure of Donatello’s bronze David, minus the straw hat – till you came to the place between his legs. His neutering operation had at first left Roddy with the slender penis of a boy before puberty, with a full foreskin. Unfortunately he’d contracted phimosis, and the drastic circumcision carried out on him to relieve this, earlier in the year, had reduced the organ to a pink shrimp-like object, very small and limp, a contrast to plump, tow-haired Sandie’s tiny acorn. Neither Roddy nor Sandy had any remnants of a scrotum. Last in the row of shower cubicles, Hugh found Jack Elliott. At age twelve Jack’s sexual prowess had been renowned, and he’d persuaded a number of his female classmates, in his native Tyneside, to pull their knickers down and take his schoolboy erection up between their thighs. (Fortunately all Jack’s orgasms were dry!) Then, one day, he’d tried it on the wrong girl, who’d gone whining to her parents that Jack wanted her to do “a nasty thing!” The powers-that-be decided that neutering was the only way of taming this young Romeo’s sexual appetites, so at just twelve years old he’d been taken to get his balls pricked. Jack once told me that when he first heard of his fate, he believed that, with that part of him gone, his life was over. But at last he’d come to terms with having a toddler’s penis and no balls or scrotum. Jack proved the saying that a boy only had to lose his balls in order to sing like an angel. Unable to croak a note before getting neutered, he could now hold his own with the best. Jack had a repertoire of filthy jokes, full of explicit sexual content. Most of them were about Vicars buggering choirboys. Maybe this was a sort of compensation for the things he could no longer do. Whilst we differed in many ways, we had this in common. None of us – Sandy, Roddy, Jack or myself – would ever be able to fuck girls. Sandy and Roddy were now treating us to “It was a lover and his lass”. Roddy detested the song and was hamming it up for all he was worth. Shakespeare or not, the words were rubbish: even quiet, diffident James Brotherton had been heard to say “If ever I heard a bird sing Hey ding-a-ding, I’d shoot it”. Hugh took a cautious look along the row before returning to me. “You get to keep your penis, then?” I nodded. “And it doesn’t hurt at all? Suddenly something inside me seemed to snap. Thinking about it, I’d traded my future manhood for a new PC and a trip to Disneyworld – all gone with two pricks of a hypodermic. Like the Greek boy Hermotimus in the Herodotus story, who had begun his servitude with two cuts of a razor between his legs. Like Hermotimus I was a “nothing”. With my only source of sperm and testosterone gone – dried up – I certainly wasn’t fully male. At fifteen I hadn’t begun to sprout – and never would – those dark hairs on my top lip that I’d start to shave in a year or two more. I had a smooth body that some men, like my uncles, liked to fondle, most particularly between my thighs and my bottom. And sometimes, they weren’t satisfied with fondling. I’d been a substitute girl more times than I liked to remember. Perverted men had kissed me and played with my cock, while I’d had literally pints of sperm shot into my behind. But that didn’t make me female either. I longed to do the things I never could. I still got those feelings “down there”. Just seeing used condoms discarded in the long grass used to drive me frantic, knowing that I would never use one! After getting neutered myself, I’d been directly responsible for three others. First, Roddy. Could I ever forget Roddy at age twelve, the boy’s perfect body, the flower-like face, his pathological fear of puberty. Losing his manhood was his way of casting off a horrible taint. All right – that was at his own insistence. Roddy was in a time-warp. Being impotent and sexless might seem alright just now, but how long would it last? I’d no idea. Then wretched little Tommy Chow, driven by ambition, as the Chinese court eunuchs had been. He was right off the scene, God knows where. More recently Paul Abbott. Paul’s longing to get castrated stemmed from latent gay tendencies but when the deed was done his mind gave way. He’d been having psychiatric help for months. Did I want to get involved with a fourth one? I decided I’d pull no punches with Hugh. I’d tell him about getting neutered “like it was” sparing nothing. “At first” I said “you’ll only feel a lot of itching, and everything looks normal. But then one day you’ll feel your balls and instead of being firm, like they are now, they’ll be soft to the touch and if you squeeze them they won’t go back to shape. And you’ll start getting brown stuff in your pee. That’s when you know there’s no going back. I cried a lot then, I remember.” I paused to let this sink in, remembering how I’d thought at that time, that boys who in the past had their balls taken right out were more fortunate. It was all over in ten minutes. Far better that watching your future manhood wither away, day by day. Hugh was listening intently. “Do you enjoy a wank, now and then?” I asked. He nodded, with the merest ghost of a smile. “Yes, although I can’t make anything come out yet”. “You won’t be able to wank any more; your cock will be too limp and soft. You can’t get an erection. And that brings me on to the next thing – girls! Have you got a girl friend?” Hugh shook his head. “Then it won’t seem important just now. But it will do, in a year or two.” Stressing the words I went on “You just – can - not – “do it” with a girl! Picture it – you’re with this girl and she’s crazy for it. She’s taken her kit off and she’s on the bed with her legs open, waiting for you to give her a nice time. And you can’t! You just can’t! You strain, and strain, and strain, but nothing you can do will give you a hard-on. Just imagine how you might feel, and what the girl might say!” I felt a bit of a cheat saying this because as everybody knows, there was a wonderful girl called Melanie, whom I’d met two years before. For Melanie, me being a boy-eunuch was the thing that turned her on. Melanie would go miles just to watch a randy New Forest colt getting his balls cut out, to be made a tame gee-gee, unable to “do it” with a filly. Melanie had only to look at my reduced genitals, the thimble of flesh wagging between my thighs - to begin shaking all over – the thought of a real live boy getting neutered – being made unable to get an erection and penetrate her - made her flood her pants. She called me her “fantastic gelding” and we had amazing sex sessions together, only stopping short of an actual fuck – which was something I could only imagine. Melanie said she preferred me without balls – but then she was a girl in a million. Hugh, quite clearly, got the picture at once – which was what I’d intended. His face was crimson. “Just think about it, Hugh” I said. “And come and see me again, any time, if you want to talk about it some more. Don’t do anything you might be sorry for later”. Hugh dried himself, got dressed and wandered off. I stayed behind to see everyone out of the changing room, then went myself. (Hugh doesn’t come into this story again. In the event it didn’t take him long to make his mind up. Next day I found a note in my pigeonhole saying he was going to try for a naval cadetship. So that let me out. Hugh would get buggered rotten in the Navy, but would keep his balls intact) For the moment, having nothing immediate to do I went into the junior dayroom. It wasn’t at all unusual to find that old copies of women’s magazines had been brought in to the dayroom. The attraction was that they often had advertisements, showing girls in their knickers – thong underwear if you were lucky! More often than not you could see the shadow of the girl’s pubic hairs through the almost-transparent material. Sometimes you could make out the outline of her vagina-lips. There was one of these on the arm of the chair I’d just dropped into, and I began to leaf through it in the hopes of finding spicy pictures. What I found was rather different: a feature-article with the title “Auntie Jennifer Remembers.” When I’d first come to Britain from the RSA at the age of ten, one of my guardians had been called Jennifer. Curiosity made me turn up the article. A few lines were enough to show me it was one and the same. I read on past the preface. “They tell me that my nephew Simon is doing very well these days” it began. “Good-looking, popular with his mates, successful in various sports and in all sorts of other ways. It’s hard to believe, because whenever I hear Simon’s name the first thing I remember of is that ghastly afternoon at Heathrow. But before I begin the story, I need to put you straight about our convoluted family” There followed a lot of stuff about the writer’s ancestor: textile manufacturer Archibald Scott, bearded, whiskery, who in the 1850’s moved from the Borders to Yorkshire and prospered. Endowing a cottage hospital made him Sir Archibald; donations to the then Liberal Party bought him a peerage At the time of his death in 1903 his six surviving sons and five surviving daughters were still around and doing different things. Intermarriage turned the Scott family tree into a maze, but I recognised names of people who’d changed my life. Head of the senior branch was Uncle Carl. The peerage had fallen to him, so had most of the family money, but he never used the title and hated to be called Lord. He was something in the foreign diplomatic service and knew all the ropes. When push came to shove, Uncle Carl knew how to get me neutered, within the law and no come-back. Uncle Carl “went both ways” and had had me several times, both before and after my operation. In a sense this prepared me for my first boarding school and becoming a prefect’s personal bum-boy. Somewhere along the line a Scott girl had married a Riche, and from that liaison had come my Uncle Max. He, too, was something diplomatic. Naturally AC/DC, like Uncle Carl, he was less discreet about it. In one of his early career postings he’d shown too much interest in young Chinese boys’ bottoms, and this kept him on the sidelines and out of the public eye – he became a “fixer”, assigned to projects too shady for mainstream diplomats to touch. Uncle Max had told me all I needed to know about sex, explained what castration was, how and why it was done on young boys, and gave me my first experience of getting sodomised – even before Uncle Carl. “It is a very old tradition” the article went on “to send the fool of the family into the church”. Seemingly the Scotts had done this three times. There had been the Rev Jabez Scott, the Rev Adolphus Scott, and much more recently the Rev. Tom Scott – my father. Unable to pass the exams that would have qualified him to become a Church of England curate, my father had decided to become a missionary in South Africa. Shortly before sailing he’d married a farmer’s fat daughter called Peggy. I’d been born some months after their arrival in the RSA. But I’m straying away from the magazine article and how it got to me. Auntie Jennifer went on to explain how her morning mail one day had brought her a picture of “a little golden-haired cherub” (i.e. myself, aged ten – just imagine!) Armed with this she had gone to Heathrow that fateful day to meet the South African Airways flight with me on it. In the arrivals lounge she’d found – she was at pains to stress – no golden-haired cherub but a pudding-faced small boy with mouse-brown hair and a sulky expression- hardly surprising after an 11-hour flight with no sleep.. “With a sinking heart” the article went on “I asked ‘Are you Simon?’ and when I got the reply ‘Yes’ all hope vanished”. There had been a muddle over my luggage – because no one had explained what I had to do about collecting it. “Two hours were spent” the narrative continued “at penetrating the bureaucracy of Heathrow to locate and retrieve a battered tin trunk and pay an enormous surcharge”. I remembered the embarrassing scene when, on arrival, the tin trunk was unpacked. My mother had obviously taken the opportunity to have a grand clear-out of my toy cupboard. All my old toys were there. Action Men without heads, cars without wheels, books without covers – all manner of old junk. Compared to this, the amount of clothing was pitiful. A school blazer from my old school – too small. Two grey cotton shirts, likewise. One pair of pyjamas. Two pairs of socks. Two pairs of white cotton PE shorts – and two pairs of underpants. These together with what I had on, made up my entire wardrobe. It was September and the days weren’t as warm as they had been. Auntie Jennifer began doing mental arithmetic, reckoning up what she’d have to buy me. Bedtime, that first evening, brought more traumas. We bathed in relays – ten year old Vikki with her big sister Sue, myself with seven-year-old Charlie. I was to sleep in the other twin bed in Charlie’s room. There was an item of bedtime routine, though, that I was waiting for, and it hadn’t happened yet. Auntie Jennifer appeared on the landing to make sure that everyone had bathed and were on their way to bed. And now I said it. “Are you going to give me soap-and-water, Auntie Jennifer?” “Soap and water? Whatever do you mean?” At home in Cape Town, much of the time I’d been in the care of my nurse, a Cape Coloured woman called Fannie. She was fat and motherly, and had her own way of dealing with small boys who wanted to “go” during the night or at awkward times. Regularly, at bed time, she would bend me over a chair, part my bum-cheeks and give me a warm soap-and-water enema up my bottom, and afterwards would dry my backside with a clean cloth. The same thing would happen if we were going out anywhere; I would first have to drop my shorts and pants, for Fannie to poke the syringe up my backside and wash my bowels out. Before doing this she used to give me a white enamel pot to wet into. Enemas often stimulated my bladder into action. (They still do!) “You know” I said. “Soap-and-water. Up my behind”. “That” said Auntie Jennifer “is the most disgusting thing I ever heard. You’ll go to the bathroom when you need to, just like anyone else. And never let me hear you mention that again”. So I never did. It wasn’t till I went away to school that, once again, I was given enemas routinely, and that’s another story. “Before long” the article continued “I knew what I’d taken on. A wilful little brute, dirty-minded and with filthy habits”. The fact was I was bored out of my mind. Jennifer’s three kids, Sue, Vikki and Charlie, were at school most of the time and even when they weren’t, they did their own thing. Idleness led me into mischief. “He put grit into the lawnmower, ruining it” complained the article “and the very same day made the vacuum cleaner blow up”. Well, I admit to the lawnmower, but I was trying to use the vacuum to remove the grit, when it blew up. Gasoline vapour I suppose. There was the day I deliberately set out to fuse the conservatory lights, and instead plunged the whole house into darkness – but I’ve made the point – with more to occupy my mind I’d have done none of those things. I’ll skip over “dirty-minded” for a minute and tell you about my so-called filthy habits. This was just as much a criticism of Jennifer’s household management. On the one hand, she put on her washing machine once a week. On the other hand I had just three pairs of underpants. These got into a gruesome condition after a day or two, and Auntie Jennifer was convinced I never “wiped” properly after using the bathroom. After a time I began going around in my PE shorts with nothing underneath. One day Vikki found me sitting on some steps. “I can see right up the leg of your shorts” she informed me. “Your cock and balls are no bigger than Charlie’s”. Charlie was only seven. Till then it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would want to see up my shorts. My cock was something I peed through. Girls, I knew, had a different arrangement. As for my balls and what they were for, once again it was my first boarding school that gave me the answer to that question. Before I could read any more about Auntie Jennifer’s traumas I heard footsteps. Quickly I stuffed the magazine into my locker, behind some school books, to be read later. Looking round I saw the person I’d have least minded seeing what I was up to – my oldest school friend, Mark Maitland. Mark had been absent from school for several weeks and this was the first time I’d seen him. He’d been back to Germany for a critical operation. “Are they in?” I asked. Mark nodded. “Well, this week-end, come over and stay the night and you can tell me all about it” I said. If you haven’t been following the series, here is all you need to know about Mark. A boy-eunuch, as I was, he had got himself neutered of his own free will (as I hadn’t!) to follow a singing career that was an enormous commercial success. When I first knew Mark he’d been quite a bouncy, extrovert sort of character. But in spite of his success and the wealth that it brought him, when he hit fourteen the reality of his neutered state got to him. At sixteen, if he were still singing soprano, eyebrows would be raised. And at nineteen……. On the edge of clinical depression he had desperately looked for a way of reversing his neutered state. Unlikely as it seemed at the time, he had discovered a German professor who was working at the cutting edge of stem-cell research. Two years of visits by Mark to this man had reached the point where two entirely new gonads had been created by stem-cell culture, and implanted into Mark’s body. But I digress. On the Saturday afternoon the slow train to Portsmouth had very few passengers and I was able to continue with Auntie Jennifer’s reminiscences. It seemed that my mother had been less than honest in describing me as having a superb singing voice and a thumping fibber in saying I was academically very bright. The point of sending me to Britain was to get me admitted to a choir school, and my father named the school of his choice. It was in a cathedral town about fifty miles from Jennifer’s home, and there we went one afternoon, for me to have voice tests and sit the entrance exam. Fast-forward a few frames to about four-thirty on the same day, when the papers had been looked at, and the results decided on. Jennifer found herself face to face with The Reverend Canon Eric Barker, Tutor for Admissions. “Canon Barker wasn’t a cruel man, I’m sure” wrote Jennifer “but there was something about him that made me uncomfortable. A big man in his fifties, with limp whitening hair, dressed entirely in black apart from his clerical collar, he had a way of looking at you with his head on one side, and a sort of half-smile”. “Mrs Saunderson?” he asked, enquiringly. “Well, dear lady, what shall we say? What, indeed, is there to say?” “Not knowing the answer” wrote Jennifer “I said nothing, but just looked at him.” “The voice tests” mused Canon Barker. “On the one hand, most little boys have pretty voices. Those who are as flat as Simon, on the other hand, are fortunately rare”. He paused, as if to let the fact sink in, that Simon couldn’t croak a note! “And of the theory of music he knows nothing whatever”. “And those few words” commented Jennifer “put paid to any idea of a choral scholarship. Timidly I asked about the written tests”. “Canon Barker smiled, more to himself than to me. “I gave the candidates a short dictation. Just one sentence: ‘In winter many wild animals are often short of food’ He then handed me a sheet of paper. In pencil and a scrawly hand I read “In winet, mini wol anlimuz”. It stopped there.” “And that’s all?” I said – it was all I could think to say” (Not like Jennifer who was usually pretty voluble). “Canon Barker held up another sheet of paper. The heading was “Arithmetic” in sprawly block capitals. In the right hand corner “S.Scott” appeared in a similar hand. There was a figure 1 in brackets in the margin. The rest was blank.” By the time I’d read as far as this the train was pulling into Portsmouth Town station, so I put the magazine away to finish later An hour later found me walking towards the house. The same house that – it seemed so long ago- I’d first lived in with the Knight-Foxes, where with Melanie’s help I’d settled Roddy’s future with two pricks of a hypodermic, and where his sadistic, perverted brother Malcolm had come to grief with no help from anybody. It had all been very spick-and-span in those days. Today there were dead leaves piled into corners, and the paddock, where Melanie used to leave Diamond, her New Forest pony, was a sea of weeds. I’d been introduced to Diamond when he’d only been “cut” a month, left with a neat black triangle wagging between his haunches. And not only Diamond. Beyond the paddock I could see the massive hindquarters of Boxer, the Maitland’s Shire. Boxer, an animal of immense strength and stature, had enjoyed a “show” career for the first five years of his life, beginning when he was a yearling, But then the interest in him waned. Stud fees fell to zero. The Maitlands decided to keep him, subject to a major change in his lifestyle. The vet arrived one day in his van, and Boxer had to submit to having his balls cut out. Melanie had watched, and although she had put on some plastic knickers, with a ST underneath, to stop her juices coming through her skirt, she got wetter by the minute, as Boxer was gelded. Gelded…….. I wonder how a horse comes to terms with that. If ever. I wandered down to the boat-shed. The sailing dinghy and rowing boat were there, drawn up out of the water, their canvas covers holding a pool of water and a few drowned flies. It all looked incredibly forlorn. Unable to bear it a second longer I walked back to the house. That was no better. Up there, behind that dormer window, was the attic bedroom I’d used when I’d first arrived, aged twelve, just coming to terms with my newly-castrated state: already I was having problems with the things that intact boys take for granted (like being able to pee through the leg of my shorts). It was there, also, that Melanie and I had had those wild sex-sessions, a tangle of thighs and buttocks, wrestling, biting, kissing, my mouth on her fanny-lips and hers sucking my cock, no holds barred. But Melanie, I knew, was in France with her parents. I’d have to make do with the memories. I was roused from these unhealthy reveries by the scrunch of bike tyres on the gravel. Looking up I saw Mark. “Hello” I called. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet”. Mark had worked out his own, rather eccentric, route: slow train to Pulborough, bike to Petersfield, fast train to Portsmouth and bike the rest. It sounded hard work, if a quick way. “Now you’re here, let’s go in” I said. Except when Uncle Carl was in residence and needed her on the spot twenty-four hours, Mrs Hodges, once the Knight-Foxes’ housekeeper, no longer “lived-in” but came in during the daytime to keep the place clean. She’d left a salad tea – not very exciting but adequate. Tea proved rather a silent meal. Mark seemed preoccupied and said very little. I guessed what was on his mind. “You’re dying to show me, aren’t you?” I broke in, when the silence became intolerable. Mark nodded. “Okay then, let’s go upstairs”. In the bedroom that Mark had once used, once the appalling Malcolm’s but completely redecorated leaving no trace of its neanderthal occupant, Mark pulled his shorts down and lay on the bed. “Look but don’t touch” he said quietly. I looked. Was it wishful thinking or had his penis grown sturdier since he last showed it to me – more brown and less pink, more like a boy’s cock (though, truthfully, a very young boy) and less like a peeled shrimp? Mark read my thoughts and smiled. “It doesn’t go stiff” he said. “Not yet. Though I keep getting a feeling that it’s going to, so that’s a sign”. “And, those?” I ventured. “Those” were perfectly formed though very small. Mark smiled again. “So far, so good. The good Prof. says I’m now at the sexual age of seven, so I can’t expect much action down there just yet. He wants them to develop naturally for a while. The way things are going, I’ll hit puberty when I’m about twenty! Still, that’s better than not at all”. (He might have added, “like you”). “So there’s hope” I said, weakly. “Oh yes, there’s hope alright” he replied. “And make no mistake, I do feel more like a boy – if only a seven-year-old one”. He gave a little laugh, then, “Shall we watch a vid?” he asked, shyly. I knew what he meant. I had quite a stash of these and took one at random; they were all vaguely the same. Soon we were watching the antics of a pair of American teenagers, making the most of an empty apartment with parents away. The boy was dark haired and wiry, with a sort of Keanu Reeves look; the girl the typical girl-next-door of small-town America, blonde, peaches-and-cream, with a “butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth” smile revealing perfect teeth. These two began a heavy petting session, the girl’s skirt quickly riding up to show – unusually – bare legs – very nice thighs and pale pink-and-blue checked gingham briefs showing the shape of her love-mound. (Most of the models in these vids wore fishnet stockings or hold-ups, and black thong underwear).The camera zoomed in to show the boy’s fingers hooking these to one side to find her clitty. The girl’s thighs opened wider and wider as he worked her up, ready for intercourse. He whispered something in her ear (the vid by the way was silent) and a caption then appeared “Okay, you win – only don’t get me pregnant!”. Interlude, while the couple got ready to have safe sex: the boy stripping off his jeans and underpants, revealing a six-inch prick pointing towards his chin. (Obviously his balls were still in!) The camera zoomed in while he rolled a “rubber” on. Pan across to the girl on the bed. She had lifted her skirt, pulled her knickers off, and lay with her legs wide open, ready for the boy to shag her. The close-up showed the moist pink flesh inside her fanny-lips, the light-brown bush on her love-mound. Another close-up, of naughty bits only – the boy’s penis sliding up into the girl’s vagina. They settled down to a long comfortable screw, the boy fucking the girl with long firm thrusts of his powerful bottom, rumpy-pumpy, rumpy-pumpy……….. This is what boys and girls were born to do. This is why I’d had my balls pricked, to prevent my ever doing it. I watched, as the couple on screen speeded up, the convulsive jerk as the boy shot his load. But long before this, and before the boy pulled his limp penis out of the girl’s vagina, I’d seen Mark’s hand slide up the leg of his shorts. “That girl’s having a good time” muttered Mark, watching her clenched tummy-muscles and spreading thighs. “So’s that boy” I whispered back. Once, we’d have watched a vid like this just as a kind of comfort. But Mark was discovering that long-lost feelings were returning. Which was a good sign, surely. Much later that night, unable to sleep, I’d searched for the magazine again with the aid of a torch, and picked up on Auntie Jennifer's confrontation with the formidable Canon Barker and how it ended. To sum up, I’d come across to the good Canon as totally unmusical and academically thick. Any idea of a bursary was “out”. Timidly Auntie Jennifer had asked about other possibilities for getting me admitted. The Canon was prepared for the question. “We do take fee-paying entrants, of course” he had said. “Boys are placed in forms according to age, and sets according to ability”. The School had a provision for no-hopers, the “C” stream. Jennifer could make good her undertaking to my mother – for six thousand a year. There and then she’d signed-up. Placing me in Form 2C, in Jennifer’s eyes, put me enormously in her debt. She rambled on about having to cancel family holidays to meet the expense, the strain on the business – a whole paragraph of it. This was part-compensated by not having me around. “Twelve whole weeks!” she rhapsodized. “No silly dirty jokes, no filthy clothing to wash” (a howling lie, she had a “daily help” to do that) “no more things spoiled and broken”.That was her side of it. Meanwhile I was piling up quite a lot in my own set of books. What price boredom? If I had been bored at Jennifer’s, I was bored to suffocation-point at my new school. There wasn’t a thing I enjoyed. The two chief tortures were, first, Latin, which we had to learn (we were told) because a lot of the anthems in the Cathedral were in Latin. The other was Rugby Union which seemed to be an excuse for big boys to trample smaller boys in the mud – and as the weather grew wetter and colder, there was plenty of that. On Sunday afternoons we were made to write home – on a postcard, to keep the price of stamps down (a whole penny!) There was never anything to say. Jennifer described one of my efforts: “huge sprawling letters half an inch high; the date alone filled half the card, and the rest went on ‘Dear Auntie Jennifer, I hope you are very…….’ And then the space ran out.” She deserved no better. She never wrote to me. What price lost innocence? In those few weeks with Jennifer’s children I’d begun to think about things I’d never bothered with much till then. When I arrived there I was at that awkward age when rude jokes were all about the lavatory: pees and poos. Jennifer made much of a ride in the car one afternoon. “I was driving, Sue sat in the passenger seat, Simon was in the back. He hadn’t spoken for some time, then all of a sudden he exclaimed “Listen! Listen!” “There wasn’t anything to hear. I put it down to silliness – but then there came the unmistakable sound of a fart, and then another, as Simon filled the car with the most disgusting noise and smell. ‘Oh Simon!’ I protested. “At school, all the boys say “listen, listen” when they let off from their behinds” Simon commented”. But I was moving on fast. Jokes based on the lavatory were child’s play. The real dirty stuff somehow involved girls – as I was soon to find out in my first week in the new school. One night the boy who slept in the next cubicle to mine – his name was Ekins- said “Do you know how to make your cock go stiff?” “My piss-piss, you mean? Well, it sometimes goes stiff by itself” I’d replied. “All you need to do is keep on pulling” said Ekins. “Then when it’s stiff, you can shove it up your girlfriend’s cunt and shag her. And by the way, stop calling it your piss-piss.” (That was a baby word I’d always used till then). “The word is ‘penis’, or more usually just ‘cock’ – though I suppose ‘willie’ would do at a pinch”. So this was the thing that boys did with girls, that would start a baby. It was supposed to be nice, and girls wanted you to do it to them. They pulled their knickers down and opened their legs and you put your cock in – and DID it. It was called “fucking girls” and it soon occupied most boys’ waking hours – the thought of it, that is! Within a year I knew I either had to “do it” or go mad. Before too long I learned that my future ability to fuck girls depended on those two blobs of gristle in a pouch between my legs. In some strange way I didn’t understand, they controlled my ability to get a stiff willie, and to fuck girls. Then one day I began to hear the expression “having your balls cut off”. It seemed that, down the ages, people – adults, that is – had been concerned to find ways of making boys unable to fuck girls. And curiously, the better-looking a boy was, the more insistent the adults became that he shouldn’t be able to “do it”. It seemed that if a young boy was going to be a page-boy to a princess or something like that, he would be taken to the doctor. The more squeamish books said that this visit was to get the boy “vetted”. Others, more explicit, used the words “suitably pruned”, in other words, the boy would have his little balls cut out. Afterwards, it would be quite alright to leave the girl in his charge, alone, even in her bath, because he wouldn't be able to “do it” with her. With his balls gone, his little “doodle” would not grow any more. However much the girl cockteased him, and however great the temptation, his penis would always stay limp,. He would never grow up to be a man and his voice would never deepen. They called it “becoming a eunuch”. Though this operation was usually done to make boys unable to fuck girls, there had been a time, I read, when it was the regular thing for choirboys to lose their balls, to make them sing better. At the time I wasn’t very interested, apart from wondering if it hurt. Fingering my tiny balls and minuscule penis it seemed very minor surgery – scarcely more than having my tonsils taken out (which I’d already had done, so I knew). Then one day a whole lot of us got together……….. To read everything we talked about you’ll have to turn up “Just the right age”. Everyone in that bunch of boys knew something about how they might be neutered. Though people still spoke about “having your balls cut off”, to have them cut right out was rare these days.There were other methods, just as effective. Because a boy’s balls were on cords, doctors had invented an instrument that crushed through the cords and the balls then withered away. In some parts of the world good-looking boys, the sort of boys that girls love, had to have their balls drilled out when they became slaves, by some sort of keyhole surgery, to keep their penises small and limp. They could love the girls as much as ever but could not fuck them. Most interestingly, in the last few years doctors had discovered something entirely new. It was now possible for a doctor to prick a boy’s balls and inject a drug that made them dry up. The effect was just the same as having them removed. I had no idea then, how in a year’s time this discovery would affect me! But in a strange way I was prepared for it. The school authorities decided it would be “healthier” for me if I had a partial circumcision – but without telling me what was involved. I went off to the nursing home quite prepared to have my balls cut out, drilled out or whatever – and it was anticlimax when it didn’t happen. They shortened my foreskin but left me enough to play with. Lastly, what price buggery? As I said a few pages ago, Uncle Max had a fatal weakness for boys and they didn’t have to be Chinese. After half a term I returned to Jennifer’s for a long weekend. Picture Uncle Max then, his trim figure in his military-style raincoat and tweed cap, striding down the field towards the railway line, hand-in-hand with a plain-featured boy of eleven, with a pudding-basin haircut. Imagine them turning aside into the old disused pump house by the air-raid shelters, the few words that followed…. Picture the boy stepping out of his shorts, showing off his tiny balls and hairless “doodle”. Picture him kneeling on the floor on all fours. Picture Uncle Max prising the boy’s plump rounded buttocks open with his thumbs, to put his penis up the boy’s bottom. Mine! I wasn’t horrified, still less traumatised. Half a term at that school had taught me that anything “filthy” was funny. Cocks were filthy, so were bums – the combination was therefore funny as well, and nothing to be afraid of. In the holidays Uncle Carl had me too, several times. He used to stroke my behind and fondle my cock in a special way that gave me an instant “hard”. (After I was neutered he continued to do this, to see if I still had sexual longings! ) I began to think about my body in quite a different way so that when, in the following term, one of the prefects asked me to become his personal bum-boy or “flower” as such favourites were called, I was ready and waiting. “After a few times with Ramsay you’ll shit tree-trunks” commented Ekins, my neighbour in the dormitory – believing that the big prefect’s enormous rigid penis would permanently stretch my rectum (untruly as it turned out.) Ramsay treated me as a substitute girl, even taking me out to tea and buying me presents. After that, we used to go to a building-site, and hidden from view in one of the half-built bungalows I used to take my shorts and pants down and sit on Ramsay’s lap, with his penis up my bum. Ramsay often used to say he was getting fond of me and would even kiss my face and neck and fondle my immature little tool while he screwed me If any real girls had been available I’m sure he wouldn’t have wasted time on a scruffy second-former as I was then. He’d have preferred a voluptuous blonde with lacy underwear, big boobs and a tight vagina. Uncle Max on the other hand actually preferred a boy’s bottom to a girl’s twat. Some men just do. He also liked to fiddle with my privates, muttering “I love playing with boys’ balls” (while I still had them in) and when he was actually up me, I’d hear him groaning out loud with sex-pleasure as he shot into my bowels. For a time I believed I was actually starting to like it. From this I was rescued by Melanie. “I think you’re the nicest boy I’ve ever met” she’d said, “And there’s only one thing to do. You can kiss mine (pointing down there) and then I’m going to suck yours. Only you mustn’t pee in my mouth”. Melanie. Should I ever forget? On that note I fell asleep. Next morning I found a note on the breakfast table. Mark had returned to school (he didn’t say why) and was reminding me that I was supposed to be at the Simon Scott Centre to keep an eye on the junior boys’ model-railway club. So mid-morning found me standing at the cross-roads for the erratic cross-country Sunday service that, an hour later, dropped me off at the Centre gates. (The junior boys would arrive, and return to school, by mini-bus so I’d hitch a ride on that). I nodded to the hall porter, a middle-aged man called Jenks. “Good afternoon, Mr Simon” he returned. (I liked ‘Mr Simon’ – very feudal I thought). My private room on the top floor was modelled on a lot of hotel bedrooms. You went in, and there was a little lobby, with the bathroom door was on the right and opposite that, a window giving on to the garden. Today there was an addition, a piece of sculpture, on the window-ledge. The sculpture, in black marble, was of a boy and girl embracing, their mouths glued together. The girl’s legs were wide open and wrapped round the boy’s waist, and though you couldn’t see, you could imagine the boy’s prick, with a rubber on, thrusting up her fanny, going deep. I wondered who had put it there. I didn’t have long to wonder. The lobby went on a bit more until you could see right into the bedroom, with about half the bed coming into view. Only today there was a further addition, this time to the bed, which was adorned with a pair of female legs. Whose, I had no idea, for the instant. Definitely not Melanie’s. I’d had a picture postcard from her only the day before. On the other hand they were very nice legs, made more so by the navy stockings the wearer had on. Another step into the room and I was seeing a black thong and matching garter-belt. One more, and I could see – and recognise – the rest of her. Big boobs in a matching bra. A heart-shaped face; long shining dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Uncle Carl’s protégé, Marcia. “Whatever are you doing here?” I stammered. I hadn’t figured on finding a half-naked girl on my bed, least of all one who might have modelled for a girlie magazine. Melanie never wore a garter-belt. “I could ask the same thing” the girl replied. “Only, keep you hair on. I was in Reception, very bored, and then you appeared on the CCTV monitor. So I thought we could have some fun. I let myself in with a pass-key”. For a moment I said nothing, being gobsmacked by the whole thing. “What’s the matter, don’t you like girls?” Marcia asked. “Yes, I do like girls” I replied, truthfully (and how!). “But you know who I am, don’t you?” (Expecting Yes for an answer; at our first meeting Marcia had identified me as “that nice boy who has had that operation that some boys have, so that you can’t ever “do it” with a girl?”) “Yes of course I do, silly! So get your kit off and come up here by me”. She patted the bed to emphasise the point. I stripped off as far as the little white thong I always wore under my shorts these days and climbed on to the bed – my bed. Marcia put out her arms and we kissed, a long slow clinging kiss, the sort that always gave me funny feelings “down there”. At length we came apart again. “Now” said Marcia. “Now, let’s snog”. I’d had plenty of practice with Melanie so I knew what was expected of me. Marcia’s variation was to add a sort of running commentary, under her breath, emphasising all the dirty words to get herself turned-on. “Now he’s feeling round her bra. Now he’s taking her bra off to get at her tits”. I took her nipples in my mouth and sucked them. This, I thought to myself, is why harem girls employed gelded slaves – it was all about sex pleasure for the girls – not for us. While her nipples grew hard the commentary was cut off for a bit, then resumed. “Now he’s feeling inside her knickers”. And there, I had a surprise. “What a lovely bush, Marcia” I whispered, running my fingers through the soft curls. A lot of girls shaved off down there, but not Marcia apparently. “It’s just like my Mum’s” she replied, which wasn’t what I expected, nor the rather common accent that just emerged – pure Home Counties! Uncle Carl had said, weeks before, that he was “grooming” Marcia. No doubt he was trying to eliminate that accent also. I pulled her thong right off and dropped it on the floor. Marcia spread her legs wide, offering me her hole – me, a boy-eunuch! At this point, an intact boy would have rolled a rubber on his prick with trembling fingers, then knelt between Marcia’s thighs, heart pounding, to stick it up her vagina. But as it was……. Clasping her thighs I pulled her legs over my shoulders and buried my face between them. She smelled of hot sex, girl, and the deodorant that all girls used on their fannies. Her love-lips were wide open and wet. I stuck my tongue in there. She was shaking all over. This gelded slave was well practised. “If you like what I’m doing to you” I whispered “squeeze my head between your thighs”. I knew where a girl’s clitty was, and began flicking it. I was getting the most intense feelings “down there” but if you’d looked inside my little white thong you’d have seen no difference. The nerve-endings that would have given me a hard-on, if I’d kept my balls, had been destroyed – withered away. My cock wouldn’t have penetrated Marcia’s pubic hairs. Marcia’s breath was turning to a rapid panting and now she began gasping “Ooh baby! Ooh baby!” in the same common accent. Her thighs were squeezing my head; I should end up with the marks of her suspenders on my face, I thought. I continued tonguing her until her tummy-muscles stiffened into a ridge. I remembered those signs from all the times I’d given Melanie an orgasm. “Get away, get away! squealed Marcia as climax ripped through her, her parts too sensitive to touch. I moved right away till the heaving and panting stopped. “Well, that was very nice” said Marcia. “You’re good at that. But you didn’t play fair. You kept your pants on all the time. I want to see you with them off"” “I’d much rather not” I said. “Spoil-sport!” retorted Marcia. “And after you’ve been looking right up mine! Go on, get ‘em off!” Finding no escape I pulled my thong off. Practice on the athletics field all the summer had improved my tummy muscles, and my thighs were good and strong. Underneath my thong, my penis had been telescoped back on itself but now emerged, all one-and-a-quarter inches of it. Marcia’s eyes took in my strong thighs, my tummy muscles, and followed the curve of my belly down to my tiny, pathetic, hairless “doodle”. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, Simon!” she breathed. “It’s………I mean……….I never thought………” I cut her short. “NOBODY EVER DOES!” I yelled at her. “What the fuck did you expect? Don’t you understand? That’s all I’ve got – all I ever will have! Now, I don’t want you here – it’s my room. Get your clothes on and go. Now!” I was shaking with rage. It took seconds for Marcia to pull her clothes on, and even less time to bundle the shivering, whimpering girl out into the passageway. I slammed the door shut, retreated into the window-alcove and sobbed my heart out. They were tears of self-disgust. If it’s possible for a boy-eunuch to cheat on a girl, I’d cheated on Melanie. Melanie loved me to bury my face between her warm thighs and suck her vagina till she climaxed. She let me do this because she liked me. By falling for Marcia’s little ploys I’d done the same with her, but it was all about curiosity on her part: what I could and couldn’t do. Well, now she knew the answer. I got dressed and wandered into the garden, paying a visit to my bronze lookalike among the rose-beds. “It’s OK for you, you’ve got a full ball-bag” I thought. (The sculptor, not knowing any different, had modelled me intact). Then, as time was getting on, I went back to the main entrance where the junior model-railway society were beginning to emerge, and with bat-like squeaks to get onto their bus. I’d hoped to get a seat to myself but had hardly sat down when I was joined by Michael Cribb, a cheerful, freckled 11-year-old. I knew very little about Cribb apart from his name. I’d seen him once in the shower, and knew that he hadn’t been neutered (and there was no particular reason why he should have been). I’d noticed that the end of his foreskin turned up in a jaunty sort of way and was bright pink (only that may have been the hot water). Cribb joined me now, his eyes shining with excitement and unawakened sex. Evidently the Junior Model Railway Club had had a whale of an afternoon and Cribb embarked on a long account of everything they’d done. But my head was full of images of Marcia and I paid little attention. From time to time I managed to put in something like “Really, you don’t say!” or “How interesting, did it really?” I was a great disappointment to Cribb, who’d hoped for more from the great Simon Scott. This may explain something he came out with, a while later. Back at school I took advantage of an empty dayroom to retrieve Auntie Jennifer’s magazine article. I did a fast-forward to the point where she’d unburdened herself to Uncle Carl, and read on from there. “It was my cousin, Carl Manningham” wrote Jennifer “who showed me the way ahead”. (I nodded to myself: this at least confirmed my suspicions). “Carl was a Civil Servant with a legal background, attached to a section of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, with responsibility for overseeing international human-rights legislation. “If I were you” Uncle Carl had said “I should say that Simon has attention-deficiency hyperactivity syndrome. Doctors are recommending neutering for ADHS as a matter of routine. It seems to quieten the boys down with immediate effect”. He paused a moment then went on. “It’ll carry a lot more weight than if you say you caught him trying conclusions with a girl who was being allowed to run around in her knickers”. Auntie Jennifer went on to say that she agreed but wanted to know more about neutering boys – how was it done, did the doctor remove the boy’s penis, or only the balls; was there any risk that the boy could still raise an erection afterwards? “Carl told me how the operation of neutering young boys had become legal in several countries, coinciding with a recent scientific break-through in methods, and that there had been an increase in the practice on a wide scale. He had just returned from a world tour and would shortly be reporting back on what he had found. His terms of reference had been simple enough: to ensure that the objectives for neutering the boys were legitimate, and that there was no cruelty involved. In Central America, the neutering operation had transformed the coffee-growing industry. The labour force consisted – mainly – of children drawn from the slums of industrial cities. The problem had always been to prevent the boys being a nuisance with the girls – who were capable of becoming pregnant from the age of twelve onwards. Then came, first, Neutersol, soon followed by Neutersol Plus. The problem disappeared overnight. The boys were neutered on arrival. Besides making them impotent and sterile, the process also made them stronger for work. “I watched a party of these youngsters at work, barefooted, the girls in short cotton skirts and vests, the boys in cotton shorts. Doctor Emilio, the manager, called one of the boys over and made him take his shorts off for my inspection. This boy had arrived from a city orphanage two months earlier and had gone straight to work after a quick visit to the neutering clinic. Outwardly he was a tough-looking kid, with sturdy thighs. But then you saw the scrotum that was only a clump of puckered skin, and a minuscule penis. All the energy that would have gone into making sperm and testosterone went into muscle development. “The only problem” said Doctor Emilio “is that after neutering, their penises are so short, that they can’t get them out of the leg of their shorts to have a pee. They have to do it sitting down”. “I was fortunate enough to witness a new arrival being neutered. It was all very quick and efficient. The clinic nurse gave the boy a shot of novocaine at the top of his leg, and a few moments afterwards he was ready. The nurse grasped the boy’s scrotum and pulled down hard, then taking one of the testicles between finger and thumb she selected the right place to put in the hypodermic, and thrust the plunger home. She repeated this on the other side, then gave the kid a playful slap on his rump and told him to pull his shorts up. “There” she said with a smile. “He won’t have any use for girls after that. It will all go small, small, small!”. She indicated with a finger and thumb, how the boy’s penis would shrink.” Hearing Carl’s story, Jennifer had agreed at once. “He’s made my life a misery” she’d said to Uncle Carl. “I like the thought of him losing something he treasures!” Fast-forward to that August afternoon when Uncle Carl had taken me to the clinic where my own neutering would be carried out. The nurse in Reception had taken me straight to a treatment-room, where an assistant was already waiting. “Another dear little boy to be neutered!” announced the first. “Don’t you just love the thought of a cute little boy having it done, before he’s ever had the chance to try it with a girl?” (Hardly true in my case. Trying it with a girl was the main reason I was there!) The second nurse nodded. “And afterwards” she said “he won’t have any use for girls”. She gave me a big wink. “Will you, honey? No use at all!” “Or on the other hand” replied the first “he can spend as much time with the girls as he likes”. (Meaning that the drug would destroy my sources of sperm and testosterone, and also the nerve-endings that controlled erections. I could indeed spend as much time with girls as I liked, because I would never be able to “do it” with them. The two nurses had giggled together at the thought of it. Within the next half-hour my life was changed for ever. I read on to the end of the article. Jennifer ended as she began: “My nephew Simon is doing very well these days. He owes it all to me” Just then, there were voices outside the dayroom. Cribb and his mates going in search of cocoa in the refectory. I caught some words, Cribb’s shrill unbroken voice: “Is it true that Simon Scott is an “it” – him and that other 4th-year he hangs out with?” Was that how others saw me? I wandered outside, into the garden. There was no one about so I just walked slowly up and down, occasionally kicking at a stone. It was growing dusk now, threatening rain. I was an “it” – a “nothing”. Right on cue I felt my penis retract- right in, to prove the point. Doing very well, was I? If so, then I owed nothing- to anybody. |