Simon and Melanie, Part 1

That morning, I woke late. I was grateful for my attic bedroom – it gave me the privacy I never found at school, and I valued my privacy. Aged twelve years and a half, I’d been neutered, or as “horsey” people would say, gelded. But unlike a horse’s, they don’t cut a boy’s testicles right out. I was taken to a clinic, where a drug was injected into my balls which made them shrivel and disappear. Over time, my penis began to shrink until it was no bigger than a toddler’s. I had no sign of a pubic bush, and never would have. My voice would never change . I was a boy-eunuch. If you want to know why, read on a page or two – or find the story of how and why I was “done”, which I called “Simon tells it like it was”.

Just now I was staying with some friends of Uncle Carl, my legal guardian. They were nice people and let me do more or less as I liked. Their name was Knight-Fox. Wing-Commander Knight-Fox had gone into business since leaving the RAF and was hardly ever at home. His wife did charitable and political work all over the district. There were three boys: John, the eldest, was an officer-cadet, and there were two younger ones, Roddy and Malcolm. It should have been a hive of activity, but today, I seemed to be at a loose end.

There were no sounds from downstairs. I showered and dressed quickly, putting on what I always wore: white sweatshirt with the school crest, white trainers and ankle socks, and royal-blue satinised PE shorts. They were cool and comfortable, and though short and wide in the leg, I never wore underpants. Following my “treatment” I had too little down there, to bother whether people saw up my leg or not.

Going down to breakfast I found that John, the eldest of three brothers, had returned to Sandhurst. The senior Knight-Foxes had driven up to London. There seemed to be no one about. I wandered down to the boat-house but the sailing dinghy wasn’t there, and a triangle of sail above the trees showed that Roddy and Malcolm had gone off by themselves. But the rowing boat was still there so I got in that and shoved off.

A short way down the main river a creek branched off to the right, so I pulled round to explore. Grassy meadows ran steeply down to the waterline and when I saw a small landing stage I tied up to it, and followed the path to the top of the bank, where I found I was no longer alone. There was a fence with a paddock beyond it, and leaning over the fence was a girl of about my age. She wore a hard riding hat with a peak, a yellow sweatshirt, jodhpurs and riding boots. She was talking to a pony, and then she saw me.

“Hello” she said. “Where have you come from?”

“Up the river” I said. “Is that your landing stage?”

The girl nodded. “I’m Melanie” she introduced herself.

“I’m Simon”.

The girl jerked her thumb towards the pony. “I’ve just come to see how he was. His name’s Diamond. Only been “cut” a fortnight ago. And now you’ll never be able to do anything with the girls, will you, poor boy?” (The last bit was to the pony, not to me). Then, turning to me, “Do you live round here

“I’m staying with the Knight-Foxes” I said “just across the river”.

Melanie laughed briefly. “The Knight-Fox boys. I know them very well”.

Clearly there was a lot to be learned but I let it pass for now and changed the subject. “Is Diamond your pony?”

“For the time being. He’s the last of the batch. Every so often there’s a round-up to see what the pony stock is, right across the Forest. The girls, and the few breeding stallions are let go, and the boys who’ve not already been gelded are kept in enclosures like this one, till we can get the vet to them. After being gelded they are sold on.

“I like to watch them being gelded. It gives me quite a funny feeling. “Here’s this big strong boy” I always think “and he’ll never do anything with a girl”.

She might have meant me – if she had known me a little better, because it suited. I was tall for my age but I could never fuck girls.

“Let’s leave him” said Melanie. She turned to go. “Come and see my hideout. It’s not far”. Round a corner and out of sight because it was in a hollow, was a small timber building with a tiled roof. Melanie took a key from her breeches pocket. “This used to be a tack room when there were two separate farms” she explained. “Because I come down here quite often to feed the horses, Daddy had it repaired.”

The lower floor was empty, bar one or two spider-webs. Nothing hung on the pegs where there had once been harness. A stout ladder led to a trap-door. “That used to be the hayloft” said Melanie, and began to climb. Not recognising the danger signals I followed.

The hayloft, like the tack room, was swept clean, apart from two old chairs. Melanie took her hard hat off and turned to me. “This is my hideout. And I’m going to be more comfortable like this”.

She stooped and took her boots off, then undid the zipper on her riding breeches and pulled them down her legs. Stepping out of them she looked me in the face. “There, that’s better. Do you like my taste in underwear?”

She twirled around to show me that her tiny black nylon knickers were, in fact, a thong, the ribbon disappearing between her bum-cheeks.

She sat on one of the chairs and spread her legs wide. Once before, and only once, had I seen that view of a girl’s “privates” – the swelling mound where her thighs met, the two fat lips that hid the secret opening that girls have. “Mummy has only just let me start to wear thongs” Melanie said. “I just love the feel of them. Just enough to hold my Tampax in.”

A few seconds ticked by. The full-frontal of her sex, and talk of “holding her Tampax in” was supposed to give me a six-inch erection pointing towards my chin. And of course it didn’t. The blood roared in my ears.

“What’s the matter?” asked Melanie.

“I can’t” was all I could think to say.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

In answer I dropped my PE shorts. Instead of what she had been expecting to see, she saw the thimble of flesh that was my penis; the patch of skin of a different colour between my legs, where my empty scrotum had pulled tight as I grew bigger and taller.

Melanie’s mouth dropped open. “Simon, you’re… (I’m sure she wanted to say “a gelding”). “Simon, you’ve been….. Oh, Simon!”

“Was it an illness?” she asked when she’d recovered herself. (This made sense; there was a boy at school I knew who’d had a bad attack of mumps. During the fever his balls had swelled up, but afterwards they had withered completely away until he had almost as little as I had. Unlike mine, though, his penis hung limp like a piglet’s tail.)

“Not an illness” I said. “I’ve been neutered. Some boys are, you know.”

“Tell me all about it” Melanie begged. “Wasn’t it terribly painful? I’ve read that in the old days they used to burn out boys’….-she hesitated- “boys’ balls, with red hot irons, to make them sing better”.

“Well, this isn’t the old days” I said. “It was done the year before last, and it wasn’t done with red hot irons, it was done with a hypodermic, in a doctor’s surgery. And I felt nothing at all because I’d had a shot of something before, in the top of my leg, and I didn’t even see what the doctor was doing because they made me watch a video of motor racing. It was all over before the vid finished”.

“But why?” Melanie insisted.

As I told her, I re-lived the whole shaming incident of my one-and-only attempt to have sex with a girl. The sultry afternoon two years before; sheer boredom making me play with my penis till I got a hard-on. (All two inches. I should have had much more at twelve-and-a-half but I hadn’t.) The encounter with Sue, my cousin; the invitation to “rub yours against mine, but only outside my knickers and only the back way”.

The mad desire to pull Sue’s pants to one side and shove it in her, the feeling that my penis was going to burst, getting stronger and stronger. I was probably too young to “come” but determined to try. If I couldn’t find the proper way in I’d stick it up her bottom – to have it inside a girl, just once!

The appalling moment of discovery………….

“So it was a sort of punishment” I continued. “At that age I’d become very interested in sex, too interested, people thought, and I’d begun doing things with other boys, and inviting them to do it to me – you know, up my behind; grown-ups too, even my uncle”.

“I’d no idea” Melanie replied, weakly. "You poor little dear!"

“I’m not alone” I went on, since her reaction hadn't been what I'd expected at all, “At the school I go to, boys like me are on the increase. Nice-looking boys, the sort of boys that girls love. I’d notice someone in the shower or at the pool. One week he’d have a full size cock and balls, next thing he’d be sent to get his balls pricked and I’d see him later with his pouch all shrunken up and his penis drawn in. I don’t know why some of them are “done”, but they are.

“You were right about one thing, though” I finished. “About it being done to some boys to make them sing better. I couldn’t sing at all, once. But from the moment of getting neutered my voice improved. I’m the head chorister now; some say the head castrato. In our school chapel just opposite the choir stalls there’s a big monument with four nude boys carved in marble. They have more balls between them, those stone boys, than the whole of the front row of the trebles”.

“Don’t you mind?” asked Melanie.

“At first it seemed so strange” I said. “Days of it hanging over me; that horrible girl Sue chanting “Simon’s to have his balls pricked, Simon’s to have his balls pricked,” and then when the time came, it was all over in a few minutes. I remember thinking as I got down from the chair – they put you in a special chair that holds your legs apart while they do it – ‘I’ve had my balls pricked’ even though they were still numb and I couldn’t feel anything. Later that night in bed they began itching and I remembered I’d had my balls pricked and I began to cry because my voice wouldn’t change and I’d never be able to have sex with girls. And I do have strong feelings, sometimes, about that. There are plenty of vids on the net you can watch, of boys screwing their girlfriends and I often think ‘If only I could be him, with a rubber on my prick, doing that”.

For a time neither of us spoke. Melanie broke the silence first. “I think you’re the nicest boy I’ve ever met. And there’s only one thing to do. I’m going to kiss yours. Only you mustn’t pee in my mouth”.

She bent, and took my penis in her mouth, sucking steadily, and moving her tongue round and round. Neutering destroys some of the sensation in a boy’s penis but it was still a wonderful feeling. I closed my eyes and enjoyed it. They said that once a boy had his balls pricked, he wasn't supposed to have thoughts like I was having.

I think they lied.

“Now I’m going to let you kiss mine” said Melanie after she’d given my cock a good sucking. “And I promise I won’t pee in your mouth.”

She stood up, to strip off the tiny black thong she’d had on up till now, then sat down again, legs spread wide. The lips of her sex were open, and very pink inside. As I knelt between her legs I noticed two things. First that her mound which at first I thought she must have shaved, was lightly downed with very fine, soft gold hairs. Secondly the strange perfume, part salty, part fishy, part musky, that a girl’s sex gives off when she’s sexually excited. I bent down to kiss it. Her wonderful soft thighs closed around my face.

At first it seemed the thing to do was to put my tongue as far up as possible. Her love-passage seemed to go on forever. Melanie’s voice reached me from a long way off “Further up”. I moved my tongue to the top of her cleft and found a tiny knob of flesh. “Yes, just there”. I began to lick the little knob. Melanie’s hands pressed on my head, holding me there. She began to moan, and to flex her legs and bottom. Love-juices began to well from her slit, wetting my chin. She gave a sudden cry “Yes! Yes!” Her tummy-muscles became rigid, and of a sudden she pushed me away from her and went limp like a broken toy. “God, I needed that” she murmured.

Neither of us could do anything more. We began tidying up. “You told me you knew the Knight-Foxes” I said.

“I should do” said Melanie. “John, the one that’s at Sandhurst training to be an officer, is seeing my big sister, Alice. Or should I say, shagging her. I know because she’s on the Pill. I keep finding the empty packets in the wastepaper bin. How do you get on with Malcolm and Roddy?”

“Alright” I said. “I was half expecting to go sailing with them this morning but by the time I’d got downstairs they’d buggered off”.

Melanie laughed. “Buggered is about right. Roddy’s adopted, you know. He probably learned it at the children’s home they took him from. I expect Malcolm’s doing it to him now, in the bottom of the boat. Look, I ought to go. But I want to see you again. Try and think of something – leave a message for me here. There’s a loose board by the downstairs window you can hide it behind – look, just here”.

She locked the door again and ran off, along the bank and out of sight. I returned to the rowing boat and the prospect of a quiet day in the Knight-Fox household.

To go on with this story I need to introduce Mark. He was my closest school friend and the first neutered boy I’d met at school, proving I wasn’t alone. Perhaps that’s what made us close. “Done” when quite young, he was, like me, tall for his age and fair-haired. Unlike me – I’m rather ordinary (unkind people said pudding-faced) – Mark had a very pretty face. Unlike me, again, Mark had actually wanted to get his balls pricked, to keep his voice high and prolong his singing career. He had already released enough albums to rival Aled Jones – whom he thought nothing of. The operation had been arranged by the aunt he lived with, as a sort of twelfth birthday present,

On a summer afternoon he had taken himself down to the clinic on his bicycle, to have the injections, and biked back afterwards, his neutered balls tingling as sensation returned and the drug began to do its work. He had the smallest penis of any boy I knew – yet before being neutered he had had a girlfriend and in spite of being so young had managed to have sex with her a few times. How I envied him!

He still saw his girlfriend sometimes No longer able now to raise an erection or reach orgasm he still got erotic longings and had learned to do “oral” on her, and she was apparently never tired of seeing – and feeling – where his testicles had been: like me, this was a patch of darker skin where his empty scrotum had grown out. Over time his penis had shrunk to a mere winkle, too short to pull outside the leg of his shorts when peeing, so he’d taken to doing it sitting down, and to wearing white nylon briefs which his girlfriend lent him.

His aunt’s home was at Rustington-on-sea, not far from the school. More to the point it wasn’t too far from Lymington Haven: a bus ride to Portsmouth then train on the coastwise line towards Brighton. Already I had the beginnings of an idea: a foursome: Melanie and myself, Mark and his girlfriend.

Mark was very excited by the idea but said that his aunt had some boring friends to stay, and we’d have to meet at her pied-a-terre in London. He was certain he could get hold of the keys, and he would tell his aunt that he’d got a recording session for his next album. So we fixed a date.

I had no problem with Mrs Knight-Fox. Tall, middle-aged, with hair like a last year’s birds’ nest, she was occupied seven days a week with charitable works and always let me do what I wanted. If I wanted to visit a friend in London, that was OK by her. With Melanie there was no problem either. She insisted that she must – just must – meet her friend Marcia for a day’s shopping. She was used to getting her own way.

I met Melanie at the train station and we travelled up together. She had put on a blue denim mini-skirt and sitting opposite, I got a good view of her knickers all the way. If I’d kept my balls – but I hadn’t, so why speculate? There were no embarrassing bulges in the front of my shorts.

The apartment, at Chelsea Harbour, was easy to find, and Mark was already there to let us in. He called over his shoulder “Wendy, come and meet Melanie and Simon”.A dark-haired girl in a very short yellow dress came out of the room behind him. Seeing me, her mouth dropped open. “Hello, Wendy” I said. “Remember me?”

She did – and had every reason to. A long time before, soon after I’d had my balls pricked and was getting used to the idea, another “uncle” (my legal guardian at the time) had gone to meet friends in London. That was where I’d met Wendy the first time. We had been sent off to amuse ourselves and done just that, with our pants down. Wendy had been fascinated by my “treatment” and insisted on hearing all about it, after having a good feel round my reduced genitals. She had taken her knickers off and showed me how to kiss her “down there”. Almost worth getting my balls pricked, I thought, if girls let you do that.

I knew from Mark that his girlfriend was called Wendy but never dreamed she would be the same one – the name isn’t uncommon. We both laughed, remembering our fun time together.

“Well, that’s the introductions done” said Mark. “And my vote is that we start by getting out of some of these clothes”.

He stooped and pulled down his shorts and the tight white girl’s knickers he always wore underneath. I took mine off too, and gave the girls a good look. The girls looked at each other, then began to strip. Wendy had grown since I’d last seen her and her boobs had begun to fill out. With her knickers down I could see the darkish fuzz of hair on her mound., contrasting with Melanie’s light golden down. I remembered the time that Wendy had opened her legs for me to kiss her down there – she’d been as smooth as a peach then. Quite clearly both girls had started their periods and were old enough to get pregnant. But not by us!

Mark pulled at my arm. “We’d better go and have an enema” he whispered. “I know where the thing is kept”.

Mark had told me that his aunt regularly gave him an enema to keep him “regular”. I was no stranger to them either. Back home in South Africa, as a little boy, my native nurse gave me one every day to make sure that I “went” when she wanted, not at some inconvenient time. At my first school after coming to England I was given one every Sunday afternoon, lining up outside Matron’s room with the other junior boys. I remembered having to bend over her chair to have the nozzle poked up my bottom, the gush of icy water into my bowels.

I asked Mark WHY he thought we needed an enema just then. After all, we were to be servicing the girls. He told me I'd find out soon enough, so I thought that he must know what he was doing.

Mark mixed some warm soapy water and filled the bag. He went first, then me, shoving the tube up our behinds, waiting a bit, then relieving ourselves into the lav. The warm water certainly felt better than Matron's cold water infusions, and wasn't as hard to deal with.

With our bowels washed out, we returned to the girls, who were lolling on a sofa, legs sprawling, full of anticipation. “Slaves, give us pleasure!” commanded Melanie. We were eunuch slaves indeed, Mark and I, . although my inch-and-a-quarter of penis was large compared to Mark’s: his was a mere acorn. What we were to do became clear when Wendy handed Mark something she’d been hiding. This was an artificial prick and balls, very lifelike. The balls were made to be filled with warm water, and the whole thing to secure in the proper place with a waistband, like a jock-strap.

Mark put the thing on. It fitted exactly over his own tiny cock. “Now” said Wendy “let’s get on the bed”. She took Mark’s hand and they both lay down on the big divan.

Wendy spread her legs for Mark to shove the dildo up her vagina and shaft her. She gave a long sigh of satisfaction as the thing slipped right inside, then wrapped her legs round Mark’s waist. The next few moments could have been any two teenagers having rumpy-pumpy. I found out afterwards that, soon after Mark got his balls pricked, he had bought the dildo over the Internet, to keep Wendy satisfied.

Melanie and I watched, fascinated. Her hand had strayed between my legs and was playing with my truncated foreskin. I had slipped my hand between Melanie’s thighs and finding her wet and slippery down there, put two fingers up her vagina. She quivered with delight. Meanwhile the pair on the bed were reaching crisis-point. "Stop, oh fuck, I’m coming” wailed Wendy. Mark pulled the dildo out of her and collapsed on the bed, sweating.

To give every detail of that crazy afternoon would take more space than there’s room for. After Wendy and Mark had finished, we all had some chilled wine which Mark had stashed away. This made Melanie randy and she said “Now, everybody, I’m going to ride my faithful gelding (that meant me) round the room”. I got down on all fours and she did just that – except that she strapped the dildo on first and shoved it up my bum as she got astride me (that sounds difficult until you try it). At least then I knew why Mark had insisted upon us having an enema. When she got tired of that, she took my head between her thighs and made me tongue her off, while Mark and Wendy watched.

At the highest point of our sex session all four of us were involved. I was lying on my back having my penis sucked by Melanie, who had her head between my legs. Wendy squatted astride my face, for me to suck her vagina, while she sucked Mark’s penis. This ended when Wendy had another orgasm and collapsed on top of me.

By six o’clock we could do no more. The girls’ “bits” were sore and all of us were exhausted. The girls went home. Mark and I stayed on for a bit, thinking what a time we’d had. “Can you imagine” I said “if we’d kept our balls and had six-inch pricks, what it would have been like then?”

“In the first ten minutes” replied Mark “you’d have shot your load into Melanie’s cunt and I’d have done the same to Wendy. We’d have lost interest in doing anything more. That’s why boys like us are popular with girls – we can go on indefinitely”.

There was a sequel, two days later. Mrs Knight-Fox called to me “Simon, there’s a letter for you”. This was very uncommon. I took the letter from her; I didn’t recognise the handwriting and the envelope felt sort of squashy, like fabric. In the privacy of my bedroom I opened it to see what it was.

There was, first, a handwritten note, which said “For Simon, my favourite gelding. May they bring a tingle to the place where his balls once were”. There was no signature, but the imprint of a lipsticky kiss.“They” were one of Melanie’s tiny black thongs. I pressed them to my face. They smelled of Melanie.

I put them carefully away at the back of the drawer where I kept socks and thngs. I would keep them for ever.