Is castration justifiable as punishment for certain crimes or aberrant behavior? The eye-for-an-eye crowd certainly thinks so, while the straight-laced judicial community abhors the idea. Since I desperately wanted to castrate someone the answer was obviously yes. Ideally he would be a fourteen or fifteen year old boy, still beardless, who had ass-banged a younger, prepubescent cousin or acquaintance. I’d take his sensitive young balls into my hand, squeeze them until he cried out in pain and protest, and then knife them from his smooth, nearly hairless body. Maybe I’d even mount him as he lie writhing in pain. Not for my own gratification, of course; I’m straight as an arrow, but the kid needed to experience the humiliation of being both neutered and violated. Actually, I wasn’t that picky about whom I cut; I preferred someone on the young side but any functional male would do, so off I went in search of a victim.

Juveniles, regardless of how perverted or deserving of castration they may be are rightfully protected and untouchable, so my search narrowed to slightly older felons whom had been released on parole and were required to register as offenders. Most states now have Internet sites that list names and addresses of convicted predators and give their physical descriptions as well as showing their pictures and describing their crimes. An Internet search of nearby counties narrowed the field and by noon I had found my first candidate for castration.

Leroy Johnson was a twenty-two year old White Male Caucasian, five-five and a hundred and forty pounds, blue eyes brown hair. His first offense had occurred at the tender age of fifteen when he had coerced a younger boy into ‘orally copulating’ him. He made it a whole two years before forcing himself on another seventeen year old. His juvenile record would have remained sealed and he would have been home free except that when he was twenty-one the dumb shit got caught pulling a Larry Craig on a kid in a public restroom. He’d served nine months of a two-year sentence and had been released with five years parole and the requirement to register as a Sexual Predator and to stay away from kids. Two more strikes as an adult and he’d end up as Big Bubba’s bitch for thirty years in the State pen at Walla Walla.

I was expecting his picture to qualify him as poster boy for Planned Parenthood; maybe a skinhead with lightning bolts and a swastika tattooed on his face, but the link opened to a photograph of a handsome young man that any grandmother would be proud to display on her mantle.

“Yeah, this is Mike,” I said, hoping that the phone would distort my voice enough so I could sound like a young teen.

“I have your book bag,” Leroy said.

“No way! Where did you get it?” I knew damned good and well where he got it: I’d lifted it out of the mall and changed the kid’s cell phone number on the ID tag to my own, and then planted it in the guy’s car while he was at work.

“I found it in the front seat of my car.”

“No way! I put it in Dad’s car. The key fit the lock and everything.”

“A blue ’92 Camry?” He asked.

“Yeah,” I answered, trying to sound doubtful.

“Well, It must be identical to my car. Do you want it back or not?”

“Yeah, I really need it. Where do you live? I’ll come over on my bike and get it, or get Dad to drive me. I can’t pay you anything though.” I knew that he wouldn’t want me to come to the halfway house where he was living, and I was positive that it wasn’t money that he was after.

“Uh no, uh, how about Baker Park?” he said. He must have looked up the kid’s address and figured out that Baker Park was close by.

“Cool,” I said. “I’m right around the corner and I can be there in five minutes.

“I’m uh, busy until Nine. Is that too late?” He was breathing faster now.

“Naw, I don’t have to be in until Ten. In front of the rest rooms, okay?”

“Sure, and you don’t have to pay me anything if you don’t want to.” I could almost hear his zipper slide down and could imagine that he was now fondling his cock in anticipation.

“I’m in here,” I said as soon as I heard him get out of his car. He was already fumbling with his belt buckle when he came into the dimly lit restroom, and the bulge in his jeans made his intention obvious. He was expecting a diminutive fourteen-year-old boy instead of a burly thirty-nine year old man and it only took a few seconds to overpower him and secure him in the back of my van. I had given a lot of thought, and spilled a lot of sperm, over his actual castration. First of all was the venue. I preferred somewhere in town and close, but that would have entailed the use of a gag to silence him, and since I wanted to hear him beg, plead, and ultimately scream in agony I selected a location in the forest a couple of hours North of town where he could holler his head off and not be heard by anyone but me.

Other decisions: Tie him up spread eagle on his back, legs spread wide, or bent forward, doubled over a log, balls hanging down like those of a barnyard animal?

Apply a tourniquet first, or use an astringent or salt to stem the bleeding? Sever his whole scrotum in one piece or slice it open and excise his genitals individually?

Assist him in achieving one last orgasm, or leave him with the memory of the last time he jacked off? Work his balls over first, maybe kick or stomp them, or go ahead and just nut him?

A lot of well-made plans turn to shit, as did mine. The van started overheating a little ways out of own, so I pulled into the back corner of a large parking lot, stuffed a gag into the guy’s mouth, and went to work on him. I had laid a large blue tarp down in the back of the van to catch any incriminating evidence, and this would be the site for his unmanning.

The van all ready had cargo tie down hoops installed, so it was a simple matter to stretch him out and cut off his clothing. Surprise! His legs, belly, ass, and crotch had recently been recently shaved and there was now only short stubble on his crotch instead of normal adult pubes. The guy was on the flabby side, and had a small dick and was obviously not porn film material, so the only answer was that he shaved so that he wouldn’t leave forensic evidence behind that could incriminate him when he sodomized his victims.

I wanted the visceral satisfaction of slicing his bag open and cutting his nuts out, and then pouring rock salt into the open wound to staunch the bleeding. I didn’t want to make a mess in my van though, so instead I wrapped a piece of rubber tubing tightly around his scrotum as high up and tight to his body as I could get it. He didn’t like me doing that, and after the muffled screams of protest came the incoherent threats, and finally the desperate pleading when I finally produced the knife.

I made the first cut right down the center of his scrotum, slicing it open as neatly as if it were a ripe peach. This caused him to void his bladder, which sort of pissed me off, and I was none too gentle as I used to point of the knife to isolate and finally sever each of his testicles. My own erection had been growing since I had first stripped him, but it wasn’t until I picked his picked his nuts up and rolled them around in my hand that I spewed out what felt like the biggest load of my life.

It was fun, but like all good things was over way too fast. I rolled him out on the ground in the far corner of the parking lot and calmly drove away. I made a 911 call on the phone I’d stolen from the guy and I watched from the shadows as he was loaded into the ambulance. It was still early enough in the evening for me to go home and jack off again before the Eleven o’clock news.

The cops didn’t seem too upset about a child molester losing his balls and it didn’t even seem like they bothered looking for the perpetrator of the evil deed, and two days later I was back on the Internet in search of my next victim. There are over five hundred names on the list, and considering all of the variables, almost as many different methods of castration, and I get a boner just by looking at their names, addresses, and list of offenses. The next several years should be really interesting.